


Oh, This Ravenous Love

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (werewolves hunting and eating prey), Accidental Courtship, Alive Claudia Stilinski, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Animal Death, Bird Courtship, Blood, Butchering meat, Depression, Deucalion is in his forties, Grief/Mourning, Hand Feeding, Healing, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Purposeful Courtship, Raven!Stiles, Scent Marking, Stalion Week, Stalion Week 2016, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Violence, Werecreature Stiles, courting, stiles is sixteen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alpha grieving a lost pack meets a curious raven.</p><p>A unconventional courtship, in blood, stone, and peanut butter cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely no apologies for the title, or the lengthy preface of notes. Read 'em if you want to get situated in this AU.
> 
> I’m playing fast and loose with established canon timeline, but hey, TW has trouble maintaining a coherent timeline between one episode and the next. I’m not worried about it. 
> 
> Basically, folks, what you need to know is this:  
> \- We’re starting this story approximately S1, with character ages reflecting that. But I’ve moved the events leading to Deucalion’s blinding by Gerard and the Hale fire, and changed both outcomes. In this AU, the Gerard incident happened a couple of months ago, not a few years. Deucalion was not blinded, and the Hale fire did not occur.  
> \- The reasons for this different outcome with Gerard will be explained.  
> \- Claudia Stilinski is alive, because I’m tired of dead mothers.  
> \- Likewise, the Hales, including Talia Hale, are alive.  
> \- Gerard is very dead.

The first time Deucalion notices his strange new friend, he’s just stepping out of a butcher shop, with a few days worth of meals tucked under his arm. When he lifts his head, automatically surveying his surroundings, he finds his eye drawn to the sleek, shadowy figure. The surety of his steps falters, and he stumbles to an unusually graceless halt on the sidewalk.

There’s no obvious reason for his distraction; on first glance, there’s nothing especially odd about the bird. It’s simply a crow, or possibly a raven, and that’s about as much as Deucalion can guess. He doesn’t claim to be an ornithologist, or even a particularly avid or educated birdwatcher.

Its glossy plumage is pitch black, but not remotely dull. It glints with highlights of rich, bluish pewter in the glare of midday, California sun. Nearly iridescent, and far prettier than Deucalion would have expected.

The bird— it’s a raven, he thinks. He vaguely remembers reading something, years ago, about the shape of the beak; crows’ beaks are smaller, and pointed. This bird’s beak is curved, and large enough that it might have looked intimidating, if the bird had a thicker build. As it is, the bird is a scrawny thing, and its substantial beak makes it looks more ungainly than anything. It’s somewhat smaller altogether than he thinks it ought to be. Perhaps a juvenile?

He’s suddenly considering whether he has the time to stop by the public library before heading home, either to skim through whatever Audubon volume they have on hand, or to use one of their computers. For some reason, his curiosity is piqued, but he doesn’t have internet hooked up at his new place yet.

The raven stretches its neck, head tipping sharply to one side as it peers at Deucalion from its perch. There’s a patch of green space wedged beside this shop, not quite large enough to be called a proper park, but it has grass, and a pair of iron benches in relatively decent repair. It also boasts a single, gnarled tree, and that is where the bird has decided to roost for the moment, amid the twisting branches, lush green needles, and bunches of pale berries.

He doesn’t quite know what possesses him, but after a moment locked in a staring contest with keen, beady eyes, Deucalion heads toward the tree, which happens to be the opposite direction of his waiting truck. He keeps his pace slow, almost cautious. Spooking the bird isn’t his intention.

The raven doesn’t look remotely spooked. It keeps watching him, and doesn’t so much as ruffle a feather, even when Deucalion ends up standing a few feet from the tree, nearly close enough to reach out and touch the flaky, reddish bark. Certainly close enough to make a split-second leap, and have the bird in his claws or bloody and broken between his fangs, if he wished.

“Hello.” He doesn’t plan to make such a public spectacle of himself, even in Beacon Hills, where remarkably willful ignorance of the supernatural is apparently the status quo among the mundane population. Nor does he have any actual desire to harm the raven. There’s nothing quite like the taste of a fresh kill, the sharp adrenaline and vital rush of hot iron spilling over his tongue, but deer or rabbits are normally his prey of choice when he’s in the mood for raw wild game. Fowl, in his opinion, is much more palatable cooked— roasted with hearty vegetables, or braised in a good wine.

The raven acknowledges his greeting, or seems to, by tilting its head to the other side. If any passing people find it strange that a grown man has stopped in this small spit of nature to converse with bird, Deucalion doesn’t notice or care.

This close, he can easily see the bird’s thin, scaly feet, curled securely around its branch. Its talons look wicked, long and curved, and black as pitch. They rest delicately against the bark, without digging in.

“You’re a handsome little thing,” he says, and this time, gets a low, croaky gurgle for his troubles. Not precisely the melodious trill of a nightingale, but Deucalion is oddly charmed nonetheless.

He’s struck by a sudden impulse, and before he can consider things too closely, he’s setting the majority of his shopping down on the grass. He keeps hold of only one of the packages, untying the string and peeling back the brown paper. With a lightning quick motion, he extends a claw, and nips a few slices from the end of one thick sausage.

Retying the package, not quite as neatly as the butcher had done, Deucalion tosses it down to wait with the rest. When he glances up, he’s entirely unsurprised to find he hasn’t lost his audience. If anything, the bird’s bright brown eyes seem sharper now, more inquisitive. They flit from his face, to the bits of raw sausage in his hand, and back again.

“Yes, this is for you.” He considers the grass briefly, before walking over and neatly placing the meat on the arm of one of the benches. Making sure to leave enough space for the raven to perch comfortably and enjoy its meal, he absently licks the traces of pork fat from his fingers.

There’s a scratching sound as the raven shuffles along the branch, but it doesn’t come down. Deucalion can hardly fault its prudence; he’s learned his own hard lessons about trust, and the sort of poison that can be hidden behind pretty promises.

He doesn’t say goodbye before he heads for his truck. He does pause, however, after he gathers his packages, and takes his leave with a nod toward the bird, and a small, sincere smile.

It’s probably his first honest smile, not forced or faked, in nearly a month. His first real smile since he’d lost his pack, and nearly his mind.

 

* * *

 

Talia calls him that evening, while he’s elbow deep in dishwater, cleaning up after a supper of bangers and mash. He pinches the cordless phone between his shoulder and ear as he scrubs sticky bits of potato from a pot.

“How are you, Deuc?” Talia asks, eventually, once she’s done beating around the bush. She has a tendency to swing between the epitome of diplomacy, and blunt as a club. It’s one of the things he loves about her. “Honestly.”

“Shattered.” He’s too tired for anything but candour, and too broken-hearted to worry about putting on a brave face. “But surviving, so far.”

He thinks about the raven— about the intelligence gleaming in its eyes, and the undaunted way it had stared him down— and adds: “Today was a better day.”

His heart keeps steady time in his chest, without a skip.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Deucalion finds a small, smooth stone waiting on the front step of his cottage. He might not have noticed it at all, if it weren’t for the colour: stark white against the warm, cedar decking. Entirely incongruous, and definitely not there earlier.

He sniffs the air, strains his ears, but there isn’t a hint of anything odd on the wind. Just the woods around him: earthy musk and the comforting chorus of a living forest. Solitude, but not stillness, when he’s wholly surrounded by life and death. Pine and petrichor, the tangy green sweetness of new growth, and the thicker, honeyed decay of fallen trees.

No hint of wolfsbane tickles his nose, or the pungent stink of gunpowder, and no blood except the stale, rusted remnants lingering from his last hunt. Nothing fresh.

Still, he’s hesitant as he approaches the stone. A pebble, really; not much larger than his thumbnail, and a near-perfect sphere that’s only slightly flattened. He picks it up, pinched carefully between finger and thumb. It’s firm, dense, and warm to the touch from sitting in the sun.

It’s not entirely white. Up close, there are flecks and subtle veins of pale grey.

He ought to smash the thing to powder, or take it miles away from his home and dispose of it. Just because it seems benign now, doesn’t guarantee it’ll remain that way. It could be cursed; it could be used for tracking, or a time-released poisoning. It could be magicked in hundreds of different ways, for endless purposes. Few of the options that spring to his mind are good.

He could call Talia, or take a run across the Preserve to the Hale house. Passing the buck regarding a potentially dangerous token like this would be completely within his rights; Deucalion might be an alpha, but he isn’t Beacon County’s alpha.

But Talia had been completely within her rights to expel him from her territory after the massacre, and the narrowly-avoided war that nearly followed. Instead, she allowed him to stay. Encouraged him. Perhaps even strong-armed him into his current situation, holed up in a secluded cottage and licking his wounds, instead of letting grief twist him into a darker, vengeful thing.

She doesn’t push him, but she calls daily. Visits, occasionally, without imposing. Makes sure he’s alive; makes sure he maintains a connection. An anchor to the world of the living, when his mind is haunted by the faces of the dead. That he’s still himself, not lost to the wolf. She has been, and continues to be, his true friend through the darkest chapter in his life.

But for the love of the moon and every little spirit, he can’t show up on her doorstep because he’s afraid of a damn _rock_.

Perhaps it’s the hopelessness still rotting away inside him. The ragged, festering hole that Gerard Argent and his ilk left in their wake, when they slaughtered his pack.

Perhaps that’s the reason he ignores the risk, takes a final, contemplative look at the trees around his home, and slips the pebble into the pocket of his jeans before heading back inside.

 

* * *

 

He places the stone on the sill of his kitchen window, above the sink. Right next to his fresh herbs, growing merrily in their pots. They were a housewarming gift from Talia: basil, parsley, and rosemary. Something alive, for him to care for. Something to remind him to eat.

The plants don’t die, and neither does he.

 

* * *

 

He visits Marin on Saturday, as usual. His emissary has been in a coma since one of Gerard’s hunters fractured her skull. Induced, at first, until the swelling in her brain subsided. Now, Marin simply refuses to wake; the doctors and nurses are stymied, but remain optimistic. Head trauma, they tell him, is a delicate thing, but Marin’s vitals are strong.

It’s clear they believe she should be awake by now. She should have woken up when they weaned her off the medication keeping her deep in her chemical sleep, but she remains stubbornly unconscious. The hospital staff’s ignorance is hardly surprising: they aren’t privy to the less mundane particulars of this situation. Marin’s injuries aren’t solely physical, and the unseen hurts need time to heal as well.

 _Mystical trauma_ isn’t a concept he’s keen to try and explain to the team of neurologists. There would be nothing more they could do to help, even if they knew.

Deucalion sits by her bed in a private room of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital for at least three hours every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Most days, he reads to her. It’s been weeks; it’s nearly time for him to choose their next novel.

He speaks to her, too, as though she’s listening. Exactly as he did before, when they’d share a bottle of wine at her kitchen table, lounging in mismatched chairs as they discussed pack business, dessert recipes, films, and anything else. An alpha might be the head of a pack, but the emissary is its mind. Its conscience, its harmony, and its tether to humanity. A good emissary is a pack’s beating heart, and Marin Morell is a very good emissary.

He misses her, and he misses the others. Misses them fiercely. It aches like an infected wound. When he wakes in the wee hours, drenched with cold sweat and so utterly alone, he can barely breathe through the agony of it.

The doctors and nurses assure him Marin is improving every day; she’ll soon be well enough to wake. They sound hopeful, and their hearts only stutter occasionally. It seems most of them really do believe the gentle reassurances they spout at him.

He wants to believe them, too. Desperately. But his faith is as bruised and broken as the woman lying in this hospital bed.

He watches her eyes move behind paper-thin lids, listens to her pulse keeping time with the obnoxious beeping of the machines, and he wants to believe she’ll look at him again with that indulgent, wry curl to her lips. That smile she only wears when she thinks he’s being ridiculous.

He holds her hand, and tells her about the cottage, the trees he’s preparing to clear and the garden he’s planning for the backyard. The beets he’ll plant in spring, because she loves them pickled, or roasted with butter and rosemary. He doesn’t mention the pebble, sitting peacefully on the windowsill. He doesn’t want her to worry.

He thinks she tightens her fingers around his, for just a moment, when he kisses her knuckles in their familiar goodbye. She’s been moving more, recently. Responding. It’s a good sign, they tell him.

He kisses her again, on the hand, on the cheek. Once, lingering, on her brow, careful to avoid the cruel lines of scabs and developing scar, where her flesh is still knitting. The mottled, slowly fading bruises where those beasts dared to lay hands upon her. Gently, he rests their foreheads together for a long, silent moment, breathing her in through the sickly amalgam of hospital scents. Letting her feel him, too. Sense him, as much as she can.

He is her alpha, still _hers_ , as she is still his. They remain each other's, and Deucalion anchors himself to that thought. He hopes Marin does the same.

She smells hurt, but not like pain. His veins have stopped running black when he touches her skin. He supposes that means the staff are doing their job, keeping her comfortable. It means Marin is healing.

She smells like home, and loss. She smells like the only thing he has left in the world. His immutable centre in this raging, roiling sea.

“I’ll see you soon, love,” he says, as he always does. When he straightens up, he happens to glance out the window of her room, which looks down over the visitors’ parking lot.

There’s a raven perched on the tailgate of his truck.

The bird is gone by the time he gets outside, without a trace left behind, and Deucalion suffers a moment of doubt. He could be imagining things. Most alphas wouldn’t survive such a tremendous loss without losing something of themselves too. Their humanity. Their sanity.

Considering the hell he’s living in, he certainly doesn't think he's lucky enough to avoid such a fate. Not strong enough, either.

Then he remembers Marin’s cool hand in his own, and forcibly shoves that gnawing doubt aside. If he has gone mad, she’ll certainly tell him when she wakes up. In no uncertain terms.

He’d made a detour to the cafeteria before he left the hospital. Deucalion pops open the plastic container in his hands, and gingerly sets half the roast beef sandwich on the curb beside his parking space. He doesn’t worry about witnesses to this weirdness.

“For you.” He doesn’t raise his voice; it’s very likely he’s speaking entirely to himself. “I do hope you like mustard.”

The rest of the sandwich comes with him in the truck. He eats it when he gets home, sitting on his front porch as the sun sets, staring out into the trees.

 

* * *

 

The next day, there’s another pebble, this one bluish grey, and a shiny silver and pearl button waiting on the railing of the porch.

Deucalion feels like an idiot for not figuring this out sooner, after the very first stone. But, in his defense, he never imagined the raven would track him to his den.


	2. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Specific warning for this chapter:** Death  & violence, Gerard Argent style. The deaths of Deucalion’s pack are addressed, in some detail, and it’s not remotely pleasant. But happier times are coming, I swear.
> 
> Oh, and something that will be explicitly mentioned later, but may be of interest now: Deucalion has a grief beard [aka the Beard of Sorrow]. Mostly because I'm shameless, and enjoy it when attractive men are sad and hairy.

The third time Deucalion sees his raven— and yes, he is a rapacious wolf, so quick to claim, to have _his own_ again— he expects the bird to be afraid. He expects it won’t recognise him like this: seven feet tall, covered in sandy brown and reddish fur, and wholly inhuman. His alpha form looks much more savage now than it’s ever been before. More animal. Bigger, with thick muscle and corded sinew straining under his skin. He sprouts a lengthened muzzle to fit his jagged teeth, even a tail, but he will never be mistaken for a natural wolf. His shape maintains twisted traces of his humanity beneath the fur and monstrous face, which results in a silhouette more like that of a bear, and he can move too easily from a hunched, four legged lope to standing, bipedal.

Hardly the elegant, purely lupine figure Talia cuts, but he’s never been one of those rare alphas able to achieve a full shift. He’s effective enough without worrying about elegance, anyway; his claws and fangs are razor sharp, and his body is relatively quick and strong, though he’s noticeably weaker than he was, before.

No matter how he looks now, he feels old. Hollowed out and worn thin.

It’s only twilight, and a waning moon besides, but he’s shifted anyway. His thoughts are clearer like this, with wet, mossy earth crumbling under his paws, and blood in his mouth. The itch started under his skin that morning, and he’s been hungry for the hunt all day. He’d barely pulled in the driveway after visiting Marin before he was stripping off his clothes, bones cracking and realigning, limbs lengthening. He’d howled into the evening air before setting off through the woods, and heard a few answering howls from miles away— he recognised the sound of Talia’s brother, and two of her children, but he didn’t expect company.

The Hales have been keeping their distance since he’d taken up residence, no doubt on Talia’s order, and the solitude is appreciated.

That was over two hours ago. He’s been prowling the eastern stretches of the Preserve since then, and managed to find a tasty doe for his trouble.

He has his muzzle buried behind her ribs, enjoying a hearty feed of softer meat and some organs that he prefers fresh— the kidneys stay untouched, saved for future pie, and the stomach and bowels he tosses aside, not fussed to bother with them. He’s just swallowed the last bite of liver when he hears it: a croaking noise, coming from behind and above the site of his feast.

Instincts, and the startling realisation that he’s not as alone as he thought, make Deucalion whip around with a warning snarl, teeth bloody and bared. He stays poised over his kill, protective, greedy, with his claws digging into the carcass and his feet braced to pounce.

Secure in its perch, ten feet up a nearby pine, the raven croaks again. A raspy, repetitive caw, almost as though it’s laughing. Deucalion bristles with mild annoyance, but he’s also oddly relieved that his blustering didn’t scare the bird off.

He growls, less warning and more acknowledgement this time, and relaxes his grip on his kill. His face and hands are drenched in red, and the blood is still warm when he licks his chops.

There’s more here than he can eat in one sitting, and even though he plans to drag most of the carcass back to the cottage for butchering and freezing, he finds himself in a generous mood. Reaching inside, he finds a tenderloin easily enough, and slices it free of the spine with a drag of his claws. It’s meaty and substantial, but feels delicate in the palm of his paw.

With a few more flicks of his wrist, Deucalion reduces the meat to narrow strips. Sparing a glance up at his rapt audience, he huffs out a reassuring bark, and tosses the shredded tenderloin toward the tree. It lands wetly, likely peppered with fallen pine needles now, but he doubts the bird will complain about getting a free meal. Then he goes back to his own supper, leaving the raven to decide whether or not to come down and claim its food. Whether or not to trust.

Ostensibly, Deucalion turns his attention to the remaining carcass, but really, he has at least half of his attention focused on the bird. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices it bob in place, seeming to consider its options, before finally dropping down to the forest floor.

It doesn’t turn its back on him, but it does set upon the meat without any hesitation. Something warm and pleased uncurls in Deucalion’s chest at the sight of the bird gulping down the meal he provided. It’s a small moment of gratification that fades as quickly as it came, swallowed up by familiar grief and a fresh twist of guilt.

He can feed every bird in this damned forest, but he couldn’t keep his pack alive. His pride and naiveté put them on Gerard Argent’s radar to begin with, and that mistake, _his_ mistake, killed them all. Just as surely as any hunter’s knife or wolfsbane bullet.

They were his responsibility, to care for and protect. His to keep safe. His pack. And he failed them, in the very worst way imaginable. They died for nothing, except his short-sighted hubris.

Meat that had been so sweet suddenly tastes spoiled on his tongue, rancid and bitter, and he yanks his face away from the carcass before he gags. He’ll still take it home— there’s too much left to simply leave for scavengers, and he can’t bring himself to waste another life, even a deer— but he also can’t bear to eat another bite right now.

He stretches, standing on his hind legs and taking a deep, bracing breath of fresh air. There’s no escaping the iron and musk of his kill, especially not while he’s still covered in blood, but the close, claustrophobic feeling begins to ease off.

He waits until the urge to retch has passed, then waits a little longer. He can sense eyes on him, and imagines the raven watching him from across the clearing with that intent, probing stare.

Finally, Deucalion sweeps a hand down, scooping up the rest of his deer and slinging it over his shoulder. He can move faster if he holds it in his jaws and runs on four legs, but that’s not a viable option in his current mood.

The raven is indeed watching him, head cocked. The tenderloin is already nearly gone, only a few strips remaining, and there’s a bit of meat clinging to its beak. Hungry little thing.

If he had the tongue to do it, Deucalion might have explained his hasty retreat, but he can’t speak in this form. It’s a blessing, in a way; he has no idea what might spill out of his mouth. He has no idea why he even cares to explain himself, when the bird won’t understand.

Instead he shuffles in place a moment, and whines under his breath. He sounds like a pup, like a beaten dog— nothing like the powerful creature he is, or should be.

The raven warbles, quieter than any vocalization Deucalion has heard it make, but otherwise does nothing. It sounds like a question, though, and he has no answers to give.

When he breaks into a run, fleeing without warning, he leaves a startled squawk and a flap of feathers in his wake.

 

* * *

 

He sleeps even more fitfully than usual after his interrupted hunt, waking often and violently. One of his pillows doesn’t survive the night, and both he and his bed end up covered in obscene amounts of goose down by morning. It’s a mess he doesn’t have the patience to deal with before he’s had a hot cup of tea.

The feathers stick to the clammy sweat coating his skin, tickling unpleasantly. Thus, Deucalion’s first stop, even before tea, is a shower. He’ll probably need another hosing off after he cleans up the mess in his bedroom, but all he cares about is immediate relief before he scratches himself apart.

He has no neighbours. Talia has been his only visitor since he moved into the cottage, and she always calls ahead before she drops by. When he shuffles out into his kitchen, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, one of the last things he expects to hear is someone knocking.

Or, _tapping_ , more accurately.

There’s a wide, window box planter under one of the cottage’s front windows. Deucalion hasn’t taken the time to put anything in it yet, or even to clear out the old, dry dirt and wizened remains of whatever used to grow there.

Deucalion turns, looks across the expanse of the kitchen island and the dining table beyond, toward that same window. The raven pecks at the glass again, pacing across the window box. Its feathers shine in the wan morning sunlight, like polished obsidian.

Before his mind fully grasps what he’s seeing, Deucalion is laughing. It’s a dry sound, grinding out of him as though his throat is rusty from disuse. It aches, but he relishes it anyway.

He wheezes his way to the front door, wiping wetness from under his eyes, and by the time he steps out onto the deck, the raven has moved to perch on the railing. There are a few more treasures arranged in a row beside its slender feet: a bent paper clip, the tab off a soda can, and a piece of what looks like sea glass, bottle green and worn smooth.

Deucalion studies his visitor silently for a moment, and allows the raven to study him in return; it’s not the same appraising staredown as their first encounter. There’s a sense of familiarity now. An understanding. Perhaps even friendliness, if he’s not imagining things.

It’s become clear that he’s probably losing his mind. At the moment, he’s not terribly bothered about it.

“Are those for me?” He doesn’t want to presume. The raven ducks down, shoving the sea glass gently with the tip of its beak, then edges a few inches down the railing. Putting space between itself and the gifts, moving farther away from Deucalion.

Farther, but not _far_. When Deucalion pads close enough to pick up the small hunk of glass, the bird remains just barely within arm’s reach. He could, if he wanted, reach out and touch it.

“Thank you, my friend.” He keeps his hands to himself, for now. Gathering up the little odds and ends into his palm, Deucalion hikes his towel up where it’s started to slip off his hip. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll make us some breakfast. Don’t go anywhere.”

They share a plate of toast, and a pear. Deucalion meticulously slices the fruit with his claws, and before it’s completely gone, the raven is accepting pieces from his fingers, rather than from the railing.

“Handsome fellow,” he says, when the raven allows him to stroke a knuckle down its sleek chest. “What a sweet thing you are.”

The raven burbles happily, fluffing up the shaggy ruff of feathers around its throat, and Deucalion gives it a few gentle scratches.

 

* * *

 

After a week of daily visits, he ends up calling the raven Matthew. At first, he considers Huginn or Muninn, but even his best memories are double-edged swords now, drenched in blood and grief, and he hardly needs to embody his thoughts in an omen of death, when they’re already so dark. Poe has a nice ring to it, but feels too predictable, and Edgar simply doesn’t sit right at all.

Matthew seems to like the name well enough. He dances along the railing, giving a few pleased croaks, then hops over onto the back of one of the deckchairs. For the rest of the evening, he chatters and purrs, preening Deucalion’s hair.

 

* * *

 

“No, Matthew. These aren’t good for you.”

“Rok?”

“You can’t have chocolate, darling; I’m sorry. Here, look. These ones are yours.”

“Rok, _rok_. Gronk!”

“Yes, I know you've probably got a stomach of iron, but every website agreed, very adamantly. No chocolate. I shouldn't be giving you biscuits at all, spoiled little thing.”

“Rek, rek, rek.”

“Sulk if you like, but the answer’s still no. I’d rather not poison you, if it’s all the same. I’ve buried too many friends lately.”

“...rok. Kr- _kraa_.”

“Hm? Oh, I’m forgiven that easily, am I? What happened to the cold shoulder treatment?”

“Rrrrok.”

“Happy enough settling for cuddles now, are you? Yes, all right. That’s my sweet boy.”

 

* * *

 

Marin wakes up on a Wednesday, thirteen weeks and four days after the massacre. When the hospital calls, Deucalion is outside, clearing unwanted trees and brush before the heat of midday arrives in earnest. He’s a few dozen yards away from the house, dragging heaps of branches, when he hears the phone start to ring. It’s almost immediately drowned out by the much more raucous, earsplitting noise of Matthew cawing.

“I hear it,” he hollers. “I’m coming!”

Matthew is waiting when Deucalion trots out of the woods, perched in an open window. Half the cottage windows are missing screens now, and as long as they’re left unlatched, Matthew has figured out how to push the glass open himself. It’s summer in California, and Deucalion has spent most of his life in cooler climates; any hint of breeze gusting through the house is appreciated. The benefits of giving the raven free rein to come and go outweigh the minor annoyances, like the occasional mosquitos buzzing inside for a werewolf snack.

The clever bird has the slim handset of the portable phone clamped in his beak. Deucalion takes it, giving Matthew a scratch under the chin, as he connects the call and brings the phone to his ear.

Afterward, he doesn’t remember the actual words the nurse said. He doesn’t remember thanking the woman, or hanging up. He certainly doesn’t remember his legs giving out, but somehow he’s kneeling in the grass, quiet phone in hand. Matthew has moved from the sill to the ground, pacing and flapping his wings, making concerned noises.

“It’s all right.” He drops the phone; he ought to call Talia, or Alan, but that’s not a pressing concern. Marin’s brother is listed as her next of kin, so the hospital likely contacted him already. They called Deucalion more out of courtesy than proper procedure, after seeing him so frequently.

He often hears the nurses whispering about him, when he visits— about his dedication. His obvious devotion to their comatose patient. It isn’t the love story they imagine, but he never corrects them. He’s an injured beast, licking his wounds; grief aches in him, and he tries so hard not to lash out. Their sympathy sometimes chafes, making him bristle.

It means they called him today, though, so it had its use.

“Shh, it’s all right.” He reaches out slowly, palms up, and murmurs soothingly at the agitated bird. “Hush, love. Everything’s all right. It’s good news.”

 _Good news_. He’s reeling, but he’s certain of that much. This is better news that he’d dared to hope for, and it sweeps over him again like a tide. His breath hitches, clicking wetly in his throat.

The sudden weight when Matthew hops up onto his arm isn’t unexpected. The raven’s feet curl firmly around Deucalion’s hand when he turns his wrist to offer a more comfortable perch, and he draws the bird closer, against his chest.

“It’s all right, my darling. I’m all right, I promise.” Matthew gurgles, rubbing his beak under Deucalion’s chin and down his throat. It’s purely coincidental that the bird sometimes imitates the same sort of gestures a packmate would make. It’s not actual scent-marking— Matthew is a raven, not a wolf, and though the little imp is extraordinarily intelligent, he’s still just an animal. Grateful for food, for affection and attention, and apparently quite fond of the sanctuary he found at the cottage. It’s all instinct, maybe imprinting.

Deucalion’s been doing his research, now that he’s got wifi set-up, and unpacked his laptop. According to the internet, Matthew is a common raven, _Corvus corax_ , and likely a juvenile based on his size, as Deucalion had guessed. Young enough, perhaps, to be freshly fledged and alone for the first time in his life. If that is the case, it’s hardly surprising that he’s latched so quickly onto the first kind hand to offer food and safety.

Not entirely unlike a solitary alpha, packless and mourning, latching onto the artless affections of a bright little bird. A raven, a wolf-bird: wolves and ravens have been fast friends for a very long time, through history and myth. The symbiosis is natural, even if the wolf in Deucalion’s blood is supernatural.

Natural or not, it should be a pale replacement for the intimacy of pack, unsatisfying, or even a heartbreaking reminder of what he’s lost. But he doesn’t suffer any regrets or fresh waves of grief as Matthew nuzzles his neck, smearing the dry musk of feathers just as sure as he picks up the distinct scent of wolf in return. A blend saturated in belonging, in kinship, in _them_.

The bird rests its head against his collar, croaking softly, and Deucalion can’t deny the rush of warmth he feels.

 

* * *

 

Marin is awake, but she can’t come home. Not yet.

 _Observation_ , the doctors say. _Not much longer_ , they assure him, and it’s a struggle to keep his eyes from flaring red when he smells how unsure they are. Marin squeezes his hand— firmly, no mistaking it this time— and Deucalion claws back his darker urges.

The attitude of pacifism he’s developed over the years seems childish now. Trying to meet the world’s cruelty with hope and kindness is a fool’s game, and a deadly one. Pandering to that idiotic pipe dream of peace and cooperation, even after he’d been warned about Gerard Argent, had been a lethal mistake.

Not one he intends to ever make again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Marin says, when they have a moment alone. The hospital staff have dispersed, and Alan was thoughtful enough to make himself scarce as well, gone to get a coffee.

Marin’s voice is a quiet rasp, dry and raw. It sounds painful, and Deucalion swallows in sympathy and in impotent fury. He offers her the water from her bedside table, hovering close enough to steady the cup as she sips. There’s a fine tremor in her hands, but she only uses one to hold the plastic cup, keeping Deucalion’s fingers laced with her own.

“Where else would I be?” It isn’t meant to be a mournful sort of question, but given their circumstances, it’s hardly surprising. Of course he’s at her side. He has no one else.

She might be human, but Marin feels their losses just as keenly as any wolf. They’re both here, alive, after such a brutal, precisely orchestrated extermination. It’s miraculous.

They share a long look, full to the brim with so much unspoken, but now isn’t the time. Marin is tired, and Deucalion is nearly woozy with too much high emotion. He’s felt oddly numb for so long, lost in a fog. It dulls the heights of his rage and depths of his sorrow, most of the time; it’s the only way he’s made it through these past weeks. Months, now. He’s found moments of brightness, usually while watching Matthew’s antics— the smiles that sneak onto his face when he’s with his spirited little friend are always a surprise.

But that gradual return to the land of the living has been a slowly increasing trickle. This is a flood. The joy he feels now, seeing Marin sitting up in bed, eyes open, is almost more than he can bear.

They’ll have time, later. Time to talk, and grieve. Time to remember. But for now, the quiet between them is a beautiful, soothing thing.

 

* * *

 

Matthew is nowhere to be found when Deucalion arrives home, hours after moonrise, but that’s not terribly surprising. While the bird does spend a great deal of his time lurking around the cottage, he also comes and goes as he pleases. It’s rare for him to stay much past dusk, unless he decides to tag along when Deucalion heads out to run the woods after dark. Deucalion doesn’t know where his friend roosts most nights, but it isn’t close by.

The cottage feels cavernous. Silent and empty as a tomb. It takes every ounce of restraint Deucalion can muster not to climb into his truck, and drive back to the hospital. To camp out in one of the family rooms, or hunker down in a plastic chair in some corridor or corner— close enough to hear Marin’s heart, and her soft, steady wheezing as she sleeps.

He forces himself to eat something— his first bite of food since breakfast with Matthew that morning— and ends up falling asleep on the couch.

 

* * *

 

He dreams in swaths of crimson. Blood and flame. Of toxic air, thick with fetid smoke and hoarse screaming. The reek of flesh and hair charring and sickly sweet wolfsbane.

He’s in the old distillery again. Neutral ground. The heat is unreal, but the fire is a distraction, a flimsy insurance policy, and nothing compared to the burning in his throat and lungs. The agony of every breath.

Wolfsbane: atomized, weaponized, pouring from the derelict stills in a deadly fog. A cloud of pure poison.

Gerard Argent is brilliant in his brutality. A viciously clever monster. This slaughter is masterfully done.

Corrugated steel, rusted and thin, should easily give way under claws and fists, especially with their strength bolstered by desperation, but rowan wood keeps them caged. The carefully concealed boundary of mountain ash, sealing them inside when Gerard tossed down the final line across the doorway. The wolves throw themselves frantically against the walls, against the windows, and are pushed back every time.

There is no way out.

Deucalion watches his packmates die hideously around him, as black corruption runs from their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths. They scream and howl, they curse, beg, and pray, and finally they choke. They burn.

He knows, if he strains to peer through the searing fog, he’ll see Marin lying limp and battered in the dirt outside the doors. Beaten bloody and left to die.

He’ll see Gerard Argent’s vicious smile reflecting the glow of the flames, splitting slick and red across his face like a mortal wound.

Deucalion knows this is a dream. He almost always knows, now; it's a familiar nightmare. He doesn’t need to look; he doesn’t want to see those horrors again. His eyes are blurred with smoke and tears, with the ichor dripping down his face and the wolfsbane in the air, and he wants to squeeze them shut. He simply wants to lie back and wait for the end.

But his dreams are never that merciful anymore. He can’t stop his vision from shifting, can’t stop the scene from changing. The only mercy he can hope for is the relief of waking up any minute now, gasping and shivering in his bed. He wants to wake, but the nightmare holds him too tightly.

He sees Marin, unmoving, sprawled in a pool of blood. She is dying, and there’s nothing he can do. The shadowy shapes of nameless, faceless hunters lurk at the edges of this killing field like scavengers. Carrion crows, waiting for scraps.

The scene is shattered by the beat of wings, as though summoned by his thoughts. This has never happened before— a change in the script.

Glossy black feathers gleam in the firelight, shimmering, before they’re stained a darker red. Matthew is shrieking, screaming as he tears Gerard’s face to gory ribbons. Still shrieking when bloody hands grab him, cruel human fingers wrenching wings and snapping bones.

Deucalion roars, spitting black bile and bashing against the wide open doorway. Hurling himself against the invisible wall he cannot cross, with enough force to crack his own bones.

He howls as the shrieking falls to terrible silence. Howls as his heart breaks again, breaks anew. He watches Matthew die, for the first time. Watches Gerard Argent take everything from him.

He can’t force himself to wake, no matter how much he wants to. There is no way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m keeping a loose, low-pressure update schedule for this story. I have a bit of a buffer written because I wanted to have this finished for Stalion Week, but I’m gonna try to space out posting chapters in between Glitter Glue updates. This means I’m also going back, editing, and adding some real meat to the stuff I was rushing before. 
> 
> Hope you folks enjoy, and thank you for reading ♥


	3. Gold

The next morning, Deucalion wakes late, when the sun is already streaming obnoxiously through the cottage windows. He rubs his face, bleary eyed and achy, and stretches his sore back as he shuffles to the door. The pain fades quickly, muscle cramps and stiff joints healing before he steps foot outside.

The memories of his dreams fade much slower, leaving a chill in his bones, but he’s accustomed to that.

It’s surprising that he didn’t have a wakeup call already— either insistent tapping of beak against glass, or a rough, blaring squawk right next to his ear. Matthew isn’t inside the cottage, despite the kitchen window left wide open. He isn’t perched primly on the porch, filling the air with gurgling noises so much like laughter when he sees the bedraggled state of Deucalion. The porch railing is empty, as are the deck chairs.

Deucalion licks his dry lips, scanning the trees for a dark lump among the branches. He whistles, long and sharp, then listens closely in the silence that follows.

There is no answering croak, or flap of wings. No sleek, inky shape materializes.

The absence is odd, and disappointing in a pathetic sort of way Deucalion doesn’t examine too closely. It’s not overly worrying, however; or, at least, that's what he forces himself to think. The unease gnawing at him is much more than the situation warrants. The nightmare is still playing on his nerves, making him edgy.

It’s been a few weeks since Deucalion had breakfast alone, without a shameless little beggar peering over his shoulder or perched beside his elbow, plucking offered pieces from Deucalion’s fingers. Sometimes skipping the middleman altogether, snatching choice tidbits right off their shared plate, but most of the time, Matthew prefers to be fed by hand. Deucalion can’t help but indulge him.

Deucalion lingers on the porch a few more moments, restless, distinctly at loose ends. He can hear the faint rustling of smaller wings, likely finches flitting through the trees. He whistles again, but it’s no use.

It’s the height of foolishness, but the sudden lack of companionship has him utterly bereft, like he’s been freshly hollowed out. It’s transference— he’s started thinking of Matthew as pack. Started caring for, caring about the bird, with all the ragged, bloodied scraps of sentiment he still has at his disposal. Caring too much.

He can still hear the terrible, wet snapping of hollow bones and feathers, giving way under Gerard Argent’s vicious hands. His ears are ringing with the echoes of screams, some remembered and some imagined.

His dreams twist like this, occasionally. In that particular nightmare, he always watches his pack die again, just as grisly and horrendous as the first time, but sometimes there are others. He’s watched Talia’s eyes go wide, then glassy, as Gerard Argent puts a broadsword through her gut, then slits her throat. Talia’s pups, too— children Deucalion has known since they were pink and squirming. Each of them murdered, mercilessly slaughtered, because of his mistakes.

His mind supplies these additional horrors, drowning him in even more blood, apparently unconvinced that his true memories are punishment enough. And now, Matthew’s earned the dubious honour of a place in Deucalion’s darkest dreams.

Anything Deucalion feels, beyond the haze of numbness, is sharper now. Darker and more urgent. His capacity for emotion swings like a pendulum, between deadened and ferocious.

The affection he had, still has, for his dead packmates is fierce and protective, as it should be. He’s an alpha, their alpha, and they were his brothers and sisters. His children. _His_.

But those relationships had grown over years together, through hunts and packbonds, born of spilled blood and the pull of the moon. Shared struggles, and hard-earned trust. Those bonds had been nurtured, encouraged to take root, and in time they’d flourished.

He’s been surviving this strange, fragmented excuse for a life for nearly four months— for more than half that time, he’s been sharing that life with a raven. Somehow, it’s been long enough to thrust Matthew impossibly deep into the yawning pit where Deucalion’s heart used to beat.

A few short, hazy weeks should not have been enough time to form such a meaningful bond, and yet this morning, Deucalion can feel the wolf thrashing and raging just under his skin. Champing at the bit to be let loose, to hunt and _find_ his packmate. He’s worried. He _wants_.

Instead, he breathes, ignoring the whiff of iron tickling the back of his throat. He’s bitten his lip by accident, teeth sharpening without conscious thought; the small split is knitting together, but the trace of blood remains.

He breathes, slow and deep, and forces himself back into the house.

 

* * *

 

“What’s wrong?” Deucalion looks up from the book he’s got propped on his crossed knee, and finds Marin staring at him with serious eyes. They’re accentuated by her newly shortened hair, cropped close to her skull to help balance the sections where the hospital had to shave for surgery. He’s never seen her without long glossy locks, spilling around her shoulders. She looks beautiful, and terribly fragile.

She gets headaches now, and tires easily— the headaches come randomly, but they’re exacerbated by straining herself. Too much noise and stimulation, or focusing on tiny letters for too long. He’s quite happy to read to a conscious audience.

“Nothing.” He shrugs, privately cursing his own incompetence. He’d sworn to himself that he’d leave his ridiculous anxieties outside when he came to see her. Marin has enough to worry about, just healing herself.

Matthew has been missing— _gone_ — for two days, and Deucalion is being weighed down by a growing sense of helplessness. He’s struggling to focus on anything else.

“Deuc.”

“This book is tedious.” It isn’t a lie, but it’s obviously not enough truth to appease his emissary.

“That’s true.” Marin tilts her head, observing him. It’s an almost avian gesture, and Deucalion’s heart pings unpleasantly in his chest. “But that’s not what’s bothering you. You’re agitated, and it has nothing to do with your dubious taste in books. You were exactly the same yesterday.”

When Marin had been sleeping, lost to the world, he missed her down in his very marrow. He’d even missed her uncanny, monumentally annoying ability to see right through him.

“It’s nothing,” he says, and wills himself to believe it. The inevitable failure of his bizarre coping mechanism— he’s bound himself to the whims of a damn bird, hinging his mood on literal augury— is nothing. It’s not important.

There’s a woman of flesh and blood sitting up in a hospital bed, her complexion still ashen and ill, who deserves his undivided attention. She is important.

She hums, and Deucalion knows that sound; he dreads it. It’s Marin’s _psychologist hum_ , patient and perceptive. Penetrating. As though she’s already figured him out, but is perfectly content to wait until he’s ready to speak.

It drives him up the bloody wall, and on the heels of that irritation, he’s struck suddenly by a wave of relief. Of unfettered joy. She came back to him. She’s here, awake and aware, to pester him and peer into his darkest corners. To take his hand and stand beside him, while everything around them falls away.

He closes the book, tossing it onto the foot of the bed, and leans forward in his creaky plastic chair. Her hands are folded in her lap, and cool to the touch when he takes them in his own, kissing her knuckles. Cool, but not limp, as they were before.

“I just want you home, love. I want you well.” She cups his cheek, fingers dragging through the scruffy thatch of beard he’s allowed to grow. He’s kept it trimmed these past few months, just enough to somewhat control the mountain man aesthetic, but he hasn’t shaved.

Talia thoughtfully included an electric shaver with the toiletries she’d dropped off when he’d been physically healed enough to move into the cottage, in the first of several care packages she’d provided, but he hadn’t bothered with it. During the first two weeks, his first fortnight with excruciating emptiness where pack bonds once burned brightly, he’d barely showered, let alone attempted any more involved grooming.

Once he gathered the fortitude to perform some basic self-care again, on a fairly regular basis, he still left the scruff alone. It probably isn’t especially flattering, not even grown out to a full, gingery beard as it is now, but ignoring it is less fuss than removing it.

And it helps temper the self-loathing, at least a little, when he catches sight of his own reflection and doesn’t immediately recognise the man looking back at him.

“Soon,” she says, and gently guides his head to rest in her lap. She doesn’t have to coax him. Her touch, her scent, her hand in his hair— all of it soothes him like a balm. “I’ll be home, getting underfoot soon enough. And before you even start, I won’t be coddled. Get that out of your head right now.”

“Ruin all my fun.” His eyes are closed. Laying there like this, half sprawled over her, Deucalion lets his other senses drink her in. Lets himself settle, as much as he can. “Fine, as you like. I promise to keep all coddling to a minimum. But there will be doting, which is completely different altogether, and I won’t hear a complaint about it.”

“All right.” The capitulation is too quick, too simple, but words carry a sugary flavour, more amusement than flat-out lie. Caring for Marin the way he wants to, making sure she doesn’t overexert herself, isn’t going to be easy. She’s going to be stubborn.

On the other hand, drifting off into a light doze, lulled by gentle scratching over his scalp, is far too easy. Easier than sleeping in his own bed the past couple of nights, dreading waking to an empty house, an empty yard. To the aching absence of sweet, croaking company.

Curling up in a deck chair with a quilt thrown over himself isn’t as comfortable as a real mattress, but at least he doesn’t toss and turn quite so much. Whatever scabs managed to form over the ragged wound in his soul have been torn open again, and Marin is the only one left to staunch the bleeding.

It’s pathetic, and he clings to her like a child. The wolf in his breast quiets temporarily, its mournful howling petering off to pitiful whimpers.

He’ll be woken soon enough, when one of the nurses comes in to check on Marin. But for now, Deucalion rests.

 

* * *

 

He scours the woods each day, shortly after dawn; he sleeps lightly, listening for the beat of wings, and wakes before the sun breaks through the trees. He shifts, runs, searching every mile of the Preserve for any sign.

But, of course, he’s looking for a single bird in a sprawling forest. He finds too much, and nothing at all. The scent of pine is pervasive. He follows countless traces of blood, some fresh and ferrous; none of them lead anywhere useful.

In the morning, he searches. Afternoon is for Marin.

Evening finds him back at the cottage. Another search after he gets home from the hospital is tempting, but he’s already missed two calls from Talia today, and expects another after supper. If he doesn’t answer the phone this time, he’s certain she’ll take the excuse to appear on his doorstep, which is a visit he’d rather avoid in his current state of mind.

He sits on the front porch, hunched in the same chair he’ll fall asleep in later that night. Saucers are balanced along the railing in a haphazard row, piled with bits of cheese, sliced banana, and store-bought peanut butter cookies: some of Matthew’s favourite treats. Beyond the rare opportunist— a few finches and a solitary squirrel brave enough to risk the scent of wolf for a free meal— the food remains untouched.

Deucalion is at a loss. Marin has returned to him, but Matthew is gone; it seems he can’t have a moment’s joy without an answering sorrow sweeping in on its heels.

He sits on the porch and rolls the white stone, the first stone, between his palms. Worries his small, precious treasure until its smooth surface grows blood-warm with friction and the heat of his hands.

He stares out at the forest as the sun sets, painting the trees in shades of flame and shadow.

 

* * *

 

“You could come for dinner tonight.” It’s not the first time Talia’s offered, but she’s less easily swayed each time he refuses. “You should come. I’m making Sunday roast.”

“Thank you.” It’s late morning, but he’s still in pyjamas, slouched on a deck chair. He hasn’t prowled the Preserve today; he can’t bear another failure. Guilt gnaws at him for his lack of resolve, but hopeless melancholy smothers the worst of its bite. If he goes anywhere today, it’ll be to visit Marin again, not to a painfully awkward meal at Talia’s table. “But I’m fine. I’ve got plenty of leftovers, and a few of them really ought to be used up.”

The sigh Talia lets loose has an audible note of growl in it, even through the phone.

“Alan saw you at the hospital yesterday,” she says. “He told me you look like hell. Worse than before Marin woke up.”

“I see the years have been as kind to Alan’s tact as they have to his hair.” To be fair, Talia is almost certainly paraphrasing, in her own colourful way. “I’m adjusting, Talia. It’s taking time.”

“It’s a good thing, though.” Talia sounds gentler now, having swiftly re-evaluated her pushier strategy. Too much, too soon. The woman is a consummate diplomat, even while haranguing him. “Marin’s awake. It’s only been a few days, and she’s getting up and about already. She’s doing remarkably well.”

“And when she’s well enough,” he says, before Talia can fill his ear with more well-meaning, but ultimately wasted platitudes. “She’ll come home, and we’ll both heal. We’ll take the time we need.”

Deucalion catches movement out of the corner of his eye, a dark flurry, even before he hears the whisper of feathers on the wind.

“—come for coffee, sometime this week. Please?” He only registers the tail end of whatever Talia is saying.

“Yes, all right.” He isn’t sure if he’s agreeing to visit the Hale homestead for coffee, or out to a cafe. Or perhaps he’s just agreed to have Talia over to the cottage. It doesn’t matter.

“Only if you want,” Talia starts to say gingerly, as though she’s worried she’s pushed too far. Deucalion rises to his feet, crossing the porch in long strides.

“I appreciate your worry. Honestly.” The jut of the dining nook is obscuring his view around the side of the house, so Deucalion pads down the front steps, leaving the porch. His feet are bare beneath the cuffs of his plaid pyjama bottoms, and dry pine needles crunch under his soles.

Matthew is perched in a nearby, squatty tree. Despite the relatively uniform look of most ravens, Deucalion is entirely convinced it’s him, disproportionate beak and all. He doesn’t imagine any other bird could manage to simultaneously emote both false bravado and sheepishness, with only a dip of its head and a few ruffled feathers.

“We’ll have coffee,” he says, blinking against the heat and grittiness suddenly blooming in his eyes. He needs to hang up, before Talia catches his shift in mood, and assumes the worst. “Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out. Right now, I’ve a few chores I’d like to finish before the heat of the day.”

He manages to make it through their goodbyes, barely, before tossing the phone into the leaf litter. His first step towards the tree is staggering, unsteady, and his voice cracks as he offers up an arm.

“My darling—” In a desperate flap of wings, Matthew flings himself off his branch, as though he’s been waiting for the invitation. When he lands, his feet curl too tightly around Deucalion’s bare forearm, talons digging into the meat of his wrist. They sting, sharp pinpricks breaking the skin. The faint kiss of blood on the air is dizzying.

The bird’s feathers smell like they always do— like musky chalk, the crispness of fresh air, and a tang of pine. Deucalion buries his nose in the soft, shaggy ruff of Matthew’s nape, inhaling lungfuls of scent. Grounding himself before he flies apart.

Matthew allows himself to be held, gathered up in an embrace that should have been gentler, but desperate relief is ruling Deucalion’s movements. He grips the raven, dragging his fingers through sleek feathers to find warm down and skin beneath.

Rather than struggle, Matthew burrows closer, tucking his beak against the side of Deucalion’s throat. He warbles and clucks, counterpoint to the whines shuddering past Deucalion’s lips.

“Sweet thing.” His words are breathy. A wet blur of unshed tears clouds his sight, and the world beyond that is grey and washed out, but sharpened. The humanity has bled from his eyes; they’re glowing, fiery red. “I thought— Scared me to death. Didn’t know if you were safe, where you were…”

He stops his own babble, listening to Matthew’s low, gravelly noises, and the quick drumming of his tiny heart. It feels as though he can take a deep breath again, after three days of slow suffocation.

“Scared me to death,” he says again, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Matthew’s warbling takes on a sad, apologetic edge. “Shh, love. You came back. You’re safe, and you came back to me. That’s all that matters now.”

 

* * *

 

In the days following Matthew’s return, Deucalion gains a shadow. He doesn’t mind in the slightest.

Matthew comes inside the cottage much more readily these days. Earlier in their acquaintance, the raven had stuck mostly to perching on windowsills or nearby trees in the yard, baulking at the confinement of a roof over his head.

Now, talons click softly against the hardwood floors as he walks from room to room on Deucalion’s heels, making himself entirely at home. He even hops up on the kitchen counters while they prepare meals, and thankfully only makes a mess when he tries to steal tidbits of ingredients, or shiny utensils to play with. He takes particular joy in clanking the steel whisk against pot and pans, and hiding teaspoons in increasingly inventive places around the cottage.

Deucalion’s collection of gifts is growing; the kitchen windowsill can’t contain all the varied treasures, so they’ve spilled over to other windows, bookshelves, and other nooks and crannies. There’s a small glass bowl filled with interesting looking stones on the coffee table, and a broken chain that may have once been a necklace, wrapped around the base of Deucalion’s bedside lamp. Unsurprisingly, Matthew seems to have a preference for shiny objects.

The ring is something Deucalion nearly doesn’t keep. A band of yellow gold, with an intricate design of knotwork all around it. No pack marks he recognizes, triskelia, or other symbols traditionally used by werewolves. It’s simply decorative knotwork, as far as he can tell. Celtic, and beautifully done. Well-kept, despite looking relatively antique and finding itself in the possession of a raven. A few scuffs mar the edges of the gold, likely from age and wear, but otherwise it’s nearly pristine.

Unlike the other baubles Matthew has brought him, the pretty stones and sparkling tokens, Deucalion imagines someone else might value this ring. It carries the weight of an heirloom. Perhaps someone is missing it.

He considers bringing it to Talia, regardless of the lack of obvious Hale markings. It would be simple enough, and not technically a lie, to tell her he found the thing on his property and had no idea who the owner might be.

It fits his ring finger almost too snugly for comfort, and slips off his pinkie, far too loose. He’s not one for rings, anyway. Working around the cottage, he’d be forever taking it off to wash his hands, rinsing grit and filth caught under the band. The way his hands change and grow when he shifts to his larger alpha form is another issue altogether.

In the end, he gives in to self-indulgence, and slips into a jewelry store during one of his trips into town for supplies. He walks out with a thin gold chain, this one whole and unbroken, tucked under his shirt. The ring rests comfortably between his collarbones, over his heart. Even fully shifted, the chain is long enough to circle the thickness of his neck without straining or snapping.

It’s a soothing presence at the edge of his awareness, and Matthew seems to approve, too. Once he discovers the gift is being worn, the bird can’t seem to get enough of perching on Deucalion’s shoulders, nuzzling his neck and plucking carefully at the chain. It’s terribly endearing, and any shred of guilt Deucalion might have felt for keeping the ring vanishes.

Marin finally comments on his improved mood when he visits her on Friday morning; he’s adjusted his schedule since she woke up, and drops by the hospital at least once a day now. She’s suspicious, but tentatively pleased that some of his melancholy seems to have eased off. He reassures her that he isn’t putting on an act for her benefit; he really does feel better. Brighter.

Some days are easier than others, and of course Marin understands.

He still hasn’t told her the entire reason. Hasn’t mentioned Matthew at all, even though the raven decided to tag along to the hospital today. It would be a simple enough thing to bring Marin to the window, and point out the black bird roosting on Deucalion’s truck.

He doesn’t do that, for several reasons. The truth will come to light eventually, but for the moment, he guards his secret greedily. Matthew’s presence in his life isn’t something he’s willing to share, not even with Marin. Not until he’s forced to.

He dreads the look on her face, when she discovers the convoluted affection he’s grown in the depths of his grief. He expects confusion, disbelief, and then the inevitable crumble to pity. He expects she’ll assume his mind has cracked under the strain of their losses, and that he’s retreated into delusions.

Because Matthew isn’t a pet, or even simply a friend. He’s a packmate. Deucalion can feel the bond between them, a true bond, thrumming with warmth. It feeds the small, flickering spark in the midst of the darkness and pain threatening to eat him alive. It feels real. It feels _vital_.

If this is madness, at least it’s more pleasant than the misery of sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, stiles. that was super subtle.


	4. Bone

“Rok.”

It’s certainly a testament to the friendship that’s grown between them, when that gravelly croak doesn’t jerk Deucalion out of his rest. It wakes him, but just barely.

“Hmm?” At first, he doesn’t even open his eyes, groaning softly as he turns his head and hides half his face in the pillow.

“Kraa,” Matthew warbles nearby, very nearly purring like a cat. “Kr-kraa.”

“Shh.” Whatever time it is, it’s far too early for this. “Shh, darling—”

“Krrrraah!”

“All right, all right.” Without looking, Deucalion flips down a corner of the blankets, and isn’t surprised when he immediately gains company. Matthew burrows under the covers, trilling blissfully as he gets comfortable, snuggled up against Deucalion’s bare chest. He nuzzles, beak clacking softly against the ring on its chain, pooled in the hollow of Deucalion’s throat.

Careful not to bend any pinions, Deucalion tugs the blankets back in place and curls his arm around the bird, combing gently over Matthew’s back and folded wings.

“Such a brat.” The words lack any bite; Deucalion sounds far too fond. He’s smiling like a fool, letting the vestiges of nightmares fade from his mind, in favour of the silken softness of feathers under his hands. “Hm. I’m not sure spoiled little imps deserve a present today. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Rok?” It sounds like a question. Or seems to, at any rate. Deucalion is still sane enough to admit he may be projecting. Regardless, he plays along.

“A present, yes. A treat.” Matthew squirms, croaking a few more curious noises. _Treat_ is certainly a word he recognizes by now. Deucalion’s smile sharpens to a smirk, and he cracks one eye open to peek down at his raven. “And what makes you so sure it’s for you, my dear?”

The dangerous glitter in those dark eyes should have been enough warning, but Deucalion is still startled by the sharp pinch of a beak, nipping his chin and giving his beard a yank. Startled enough to yelp like a pup, embarrassingly enough.

The wounded pride stings more than the bite, but the warm, raspy chuckle that his ridiculous reaction earns from Matthew is worth any suffering.

“You’re a holy terror,” Deucalion grouses, rubbing his chin, then taps the bird lightly on the tip of the beak. “I’ve spoiled you utterly rotten. How terrible of me.”

“Rek rek.”

“No, I don’t sound broken up about it, do I? Of course not.” Stroking his thumb over the crown of Matthew’s head, Deucalion stretches his free arm toward the bedside table. He gets the drawer open, feeling around for his prize. “That’s because I wouldn’t change a thing. You’re perfect just as you are, my sweet boy. Bright, mischievous, saucy little hellion. Here.”

Finally fishing the gift from where he’d been keeping it secreted it away, Deucalion keeps it cupped in his fist, out of sight.

“Now, I want you to promise,” he says, while Matthew’s head tips from one side to the other. “That you won’t swallow it. This isn’t that sort of present. Not for eating.”

He uncurls his fingers, slowly for a bit of drama, revealing the small token resting on his palm.

“Grrrok?” The chunk of deer bone is barely half the size of his thumb, cleaned and polished to an off-white sheen. The carving is fairly simple, done with claws and few other tools, shaping the bone and etching fine lines until the thing resembled a small feather.

Deucalion started working on it a few weeks ago, before Marin woke. Only ever in the evenings, after Matthew left for the night. He hasn’t whittled in years, and his skills are shamefully rusty. The feather isn’t particularly impressive. But, over the past few days since Matthew’s return, finishing it has felt more important than ever.

“You’re always bringing me treasures,” Deucalion says. An odd pang of vulnerability threatens to put a hitch in his voice, now that his crudely made gift is laid out in the light of day. “This one’s for you, my darling. Probably not nearly as exciting as the notion of breakfast, but I hope you like it anyway.”

Matthew’s head tilts again, peering at the trinket. He’s still tucked mostly under the blankets, but Deucalion can feel his spindly legs fidgeting.

“Kraa.” With a wriggle, Matthew manages to free himself enough to inch up Deucalion’s chest. Close enough to wedge against shoulder and pillow, gurgling as he starts preening the hair away from Deucalion’s brow. “Graah, kr- _kraa_. Kraa.”

“Is it safe to assume you like the gift?” Deucalion wrinkles his nose when Matthew rubs it with his beak, tickling, but doesn’t move away from the contact. Not even when the bird goes lower, nuzzling against Deucalion’s lips and chin.

“I love you, too,” he says, without thinking. The movement of his mouth makes Matthew jerk back ever so slightly. Deucalion hums soothingly, giving into the urge to brush a kiss against the smooth curve of the bird’s beak.

The quiet, rumbling noise Matthew makes is sugar sweet. 

 

* * *

 

When Matthew leaves to roost that night, the bone feather disappears along with him. When Deucalion realizes it’s gone, that Matthew actually took it, the flood of affection is nearly more than he can bear. He hadn’t been entirely sure the bird would understand the gift, or that the feather would hold his interest. After all, it isn’t especially shiny, or edible.

He imagines a hidey hole somewhere— the crook of an old tree, or some other natural shelter— a relatively safe place to store glittering baubles and whatever curiosities have caught Matthew’s keen eyes enough for the bird to collect them. He imagines his feather, the labour of his own hands, nestled among those gathered treasures. A bit of him, a gift and a memory, kept close by while Matthew sleeps.

Deucalion falls asleep in his bed that night with his mind mercifully quiet, and his ring on its chain around his neck, clutched loosely in his fist. Like a talisman, warding against things that stalk the darkest corners of his nightmares.

His dreams are far from kind, but with a palm of warm gold resting over his heart, the chill fades faster upon waking.

 

* * *

 

As a general rule, a person can only avoid Talia Hale for so long, before the option to do so is taken out of their hands. Deucalion knows this, all too well.

He begs off coffee for over a week, using yard work and other puttering chores around the cottage as flimsy excuses. But eventually he has to give in, if only to keep her from showing up on his doorstep, unannounced. He bites the bullet, and accepts the invitation to the Hale homestead for coffee.

Deucalion straightens up after tying his shoes, and whistles. The quick patter of small, sharp feet he expects doesn’t materialize, nor does a flap of broad, black wings. The only response he receives is a muffled croak from the direction of the bedroom.

When he investigates, Deucalion finds Matthew snuggled between two pillows, with his feathers fluffed and a look of utter contentment shining in his deep brown eyes. His body is facing the headboard, but his neck is twisted around in the opposite direction, so he can rest his head on his own back. It looks like a convoluted pose, but according to the internet, it means Matthew is feeling safe and comfortable.

“Rok,” the bird says again, fluffing his wings out even more, until he looks like an inky puffball against the dark grey pillowcases.

“Lazybones.” There’s a smile playing around Deucalion’s mouth, and lush affection in his voice that he doesn’t attempt to mask at all. As much as he relishes the company, the fact that Matthew’s willing to let Deucalion out of his sight again is a good sign.

“All right,” he says. “Far be it from me to interrupt, when you're obviously so busy. I shouldn’t be long, my dear.”

Matthew chitters, wagging his tail feathers, but doesn’t get up. Deucalion smothers the urge to crawl into bed beside him; it’s only early afternoon, but a nap is sorely tempting. Hiding away from the world at large, and Talia’s good intentions in particular.

“Be a good boy,” he calls back, as he slips out of the bedroom and heads toward the front door. “And I might bring you home a treat.”

 

* * *

 

“You could always—” When Talia cuts herself off abruptly, Deucalion lifts his head to look at her. He’s been listening, but also absorbed with disassembling the scone on his plate. Breaking his food into small pieces is habit now, whether or not any greedy feathered beggar is nearby.

Talia is gawking at his chest, but a glance down at himself shows no obvious stains. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

“What,” he starts to ask, then rears back in his seat when Talia unexpectedly reaches out toward him. His eyes flare red, and hers do the same for a split second, before she retreats, looking shocked and abashed.

“I didn’t— Deuc, I’m so sorry.” Talia spreads her hands on the table, empty and nonthreatening, with claws sheathed. “I was surprised, and not thinking at all.”

“It’s all right.” It takes him a moment to shake off the tension. He exhales, long and slow, and forces his body to relax out of instinctual defense. These days, the barest inkling of threat is enough to get his hackles up.

But Talia isn’t his enemy.

“Surprised by what?” His nerves are still buzzing, agitated, but he keeps his voice steady.

“That.” She points to him, with a slow, careful gesture. “The ring.”

Deucalion’s fingers are suddenly curled around the ring in question, gripping it tightly. He hadn’t even noticed it peeking out of the neck of his henley, where he’d left the top buttons undone. Talia’s apparent recognition of the bauble is deeply unsettling, but he tries not to let it show.

“The ring,” he parrots, with only the slightest note of question, but doesn’t volunteer any information. If Talia wants to know something, she can ask.

Honestly, he hopes that she won’t. Hopes against hope that she’ll leave thing alone. But of course not; he’s not that lucky.

“Did you— Where did you get it?” At least it’s a question he’s prepared to answer.

“I found it.” In the centre of his own palm, where Matthew dropped it. “At home, on the property. Why?”

“It belongs to a friend of mine,” Talia says, and Deucalion feels oddly scrutinized. Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s something… _curious_ sharpening her stare. “Claudia Stilinski.”

The name means nothing to him, though he has some hazy memories of hearing _Stilinski_ before, in passing. Overhearing some deputies speaking in the hospital, if he recalls correctly. Nothing that struck him as important, at the time.

But Talia says the name while watching him carefully, as though looking for a reaction. The only thing he gives her is a shrug, taking a sip of his coffee.

“If it’s even the same ring at all,” Talia continues, after a brief but pregnant sort of pause. “I could be wrong. May I see it?”

“Of course.” He doesn’t want to do it— the wolf inside him roars and rages at the very idea— but refusing would raise far too many questions.

He sets his coffee down, and unclasps the chain. The gold slithers off his neck, and he holds it out to her. The ring dangles between them; the metal probably still holds the warmth of his skin when she takes it.

“I’m sure this is hers,” Talia murmurs, turning the ring around the tip of her finger. It sounds as though she’s talking more to herself than to him.

He doesn’t have any other options available. Being the _brittle alpha in mourning_ only allows him so much leeway, when it comes to social interactions. Especially when dealing with the alpha of his new home— a home he doesn’t want to leave anytime soon— and someone who has known him as long as Talia Hale.

“Feel free to return it, then.” He smiles as genially as he can manage, without baring his teeth. Anything more, and he doubts he’d be able to contain his snarl.

He’s only worn the thing for a handful of days, but already feels the absence of it keenly.

 

* * *

 

Talia keeps the ring, but returns his chain. It drapes oddly under his shirt, without weight to hold it down.

He ignores the itch under his skin, and resists the urge to tear the necklace off and toss it out the window of the truck. To snap the delicate gold with a yank of his fist.

It isn’t actually strangling him, no matter how tight his throat feels.

He doesn't know how to explain the loss of the gift to Matthew, and he doesn’t know which type of reaction he dreads more: dismay, or apathy. The thought of Matthew looking at him with disappointment, all ruffled feathers and sad, dark eyes, is almost more than he can bear. But the alternative might be worse.

If Matthew doesn’t react to the ring’s absence, that will be a stark reminder of how far into denial Deucalion has allowed himself to sink. A reminder that whatever feelings he might impose upon Matthew, whatever importance he might assign to their interactions, the raven is still merely an animal. Clever and sweet, but limited by his nature. And poor Matthew can hardly be blamed for that.

The ring is gone; that treasured gift, which Deucalion has kept so close to his heart. If Matthew doesn’t care, then Deucalion is truly alone in the depths of his affection. He isn’t sure what will be left of him, when that delusion shatters.

So, in the end, he says nothing. He keeps his henley on, buttoned, and the empty chain around his neck, until Matthew leaves to roost that night.

Guilt eats at him, sour and sharp, but there’s nothing to be done.

 

* * *

 

Gerard is waiting, when he sleeps. The distillery is burning.

Matthew’s screams grow wet, then fall silent, strangled by vicious hands and a glittering golden chain.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes in the wee hours, tangled tightly in his sweat-soaked sheets, his own hands are shaking too badly to make a cup of tea. Loose leaf spills across the countertop, black as ashes. Operating the kettle is beyond his abilities.

He splashes his face with water from the kitchen tap, bitterly cold; it saturates the collar of his t-shirt. He can’t stop shivering. The night air is humid, sticky with nagging heat, but his bones ache with a deep chill.

Deucalion sits on the porch, wrapped in a musty wool jumper, and waits for the sun.

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon, Deucalion returns from his visit with Marin, and finds a Hale sitting on his porch steps. He’s not expecting any visitors, let alone this one.

Climbing out of the truck, Deucalion makes no effort to repress his scowl. Talia’s brother is a very clever man, too charming by half, with a reputation for ruthlessness that Deucalion once found significantly more distasteful than he does now.

At the moment, Peter Hale is also a trespasser. Beacon County might be Hale land, but Deucalion has claimed this little patch of forest, with Talia’s blessing. He won’t abide interlopers.

Peter doesn’t stand up, keeping his feet planted on the ground and his hands braced on his knees. He doesn’t retreat, even as Deucalion prowls slowly nearer.

“Afternoon, Deuc.” The familiarity of the nickname rankles, and it’s clear that Peter notices. He holds up his arms in a loose approximation of surrender. “I come in peace. And I apologize for the unexpected visit, Alpha Deucalion. It wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh? Whose idea was it?” Before Peter answers, something catches Deucalion’s ear. A voice he doesn’t recognise, coming from behind the house. A woman, it sounds like, in a tight, chiding tone. Her words are audible to werewolf hearing, even at this distance.

“—can’t believe you’d do something like this. Do you understand how serious this is? And you decide to play games when the poor man’s grieving, for godsake—”

Deucalion fixes Peter with a hard look, jerking his chin towards the sound. “And who the hell is that?”

“That would be my current charge. Excuse me a moment; this’ll be loud.” Peter makes a loop with his pointer finger and thumb, tucking them between his his lips, and Deucalion winces as the offensively shrill whistle cuts through the air.

Even suffering some faint tinnitus, Deucalion can hear the distant voice pause, then start up again a moment later, quieter but more vehement than before. If he strains, he can still make out the words.

“—back, so get down here right now, young man. I’m serious, Stiles. _Stiles_!”

“Ms. Claudia Stilinski,” Peter says, interrupting Deucalion’s eavesdropping. “My sister instructed me to bring Claudia out here, while you were elsewhere. With an emphasis on coming and going undetected if possible and, in particular, avoiding a confrontation like this one. Whoops.”

“Whoops,” Deucalion echoes, desert dry, with his anger carefully leashed. If he allows the hot well of rage churning in his gut to boil over, it’s likely he’ll do something regrettable.

He’s in a delicate situation. Talia has overstepped, sending at least one of her betas to invade his den without his knowledge, but he’s an alpha living in her territory. There’s a certain amount of power, of independent authority, that he’s given up.

If he reacts poorly to this, she can easily force him out. If he loses his temper and guts her brother, the fallout could be catastrophic. With Marin still in hospital, and Matthew to think of, Deucalion can’t risk turning old friends into enemies. He doesn’t want to, no matter how furious he is at the moment.

“You would have heard my truck coming from the road,” he says, falling back on curiosity as he swallows down the poison of his ire. “You likely would’ve had time to leave, even if you couldn’t completely cover your tracks. Yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.” Peter’s smile is slick, with just a hint of teeth. “I might be here on Talia’s orders, but I’m multitasking, making the best of an awkward situation. Sticking around like this? Let’s call it a favour for a friend.”

Deucalion cocks his head, skeptical. “We aren’t friends.”

“I’m not talking about you,” Peter says, finally rising to stand. His posture is relaxed, but he makes no sudden moves, and keeps both eyes on Deucalion. “Here comes Claudia.”

A moment later, the approaching footsteps crunching through dry brush resolve themselves into the figure of a woman, appearing around the side of the cottage. She, and the young man stumbling behind her, freeze when they notice the two werewolves watching them.

Both newcomers have the same dark hair and fair complexion, and similar enough features that Deucalion would guess there’s some blood relation between them. The family resemblance is strong.

“Shit,” the woman whispers, and shoots a questioning glance toward Peter. The young man, who looks barely more than a boy, is staring at Deucalion with wide, honey brown eyes that gleam in the afternoon sun.

The sharp clap of Peter’s hands makes the boy jump, startling with a flail of limbs. With his gawky teenaged body, and those eyes, he looks remarkably like a fawn.

It shouldn’t be enough to pique Deucalion’s prey drive— he’s not some freshly bitten pup, barely in control of his instincts— but he can’t deny a shocking urge, even though he manages not to act on it. He wants to hold that boy’s slender throat between his jaws. He wants to lick the quick flutter of his rabbiting pulse, tasting salt and the faint promise of iron simmering under moon-pale skin.

He _wants_ , so sudden and so savagely, and has no idea why.

Shame washes over him in an icy tide. Something is very wrong. This unexpected invasion of his own den, his refuge, has him more off-kilter than he realised, apparently.

“Hope you’re ready to head out,” Peter says to the woman and young man, chafing his hands together. It’s an oddly gleeful gesture, given the circumstances. “Because we’ve worn out our welcome.”

Claudia’s expression tightens as she stares Peter down, and her mouth opens, before snapping shut again. She seems to consider something, then visibly calms.

“Sir,” she says, turning her attention to Deucalion and plastering on a strained smile. “Hi. Claudia Stilinski. I want to apologize for all this. I was hoping to sort it out without bothering you.” She reaches behind herself, without looking, and snares the boy by the elbow. She pulls, and he follows, approaching across the yard. “My son wants to apologize, too. Don’t you, Stiles?”

The boy, _Stiles_ , gawks at his mother in utter disbelief, before nodding his head. “Oh, absolutely, yeah.”

The sarcasm is clear enough, even if Deucalion couldn’t hear the lie.

“Stiles,” Claudia hisses, while nearby, Peter does a poor job of stifling laughter behind his hand.

This close, Deucalion notices that Stiles is barefoot, wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and a blue t-shirt. His hair is buzzed close to his skull, and there are a few pine needles and twigs glued to it here and there, with sticky resin.

There aren’t any needles stuck to his clothes, however, or any signs of dirt. The way the shirt is rucked up at the shoulders, it looks as though Stiles has very recently pulled it on, without time to adjust the drape of the cloth.

The idea of a naked teenager traipsing through the woods in the middle of the afternoon might have been strange to some, but Deucalion has his theories. The boy doesn’t move like a wolf, but the gracelessness could easily be an act. Talia said Claudia Stilinski was a friend; perhaps Stiles is simply a curious Hale beta, young and daring enough to investigate the mysterious alpha hermit recently taking up residence on the outskirts of the Preserve.

Deucalion inhales deeply, scenting the air. He doesn’t catch the tang of wolf he expects, from Stiles or his mother.

He smells _something_ , however. Something so unanticipated, it sends his mind reeling and his eyes flaring red.

“No!” Claudia isn’t a particularly imposing woman at first glance, but she doesn’t hesitate to place herself between Deucalion and her son. She doesn’t carry the scent of wolf in her blood, but the ferocity twisting her face is potent without claws and fangs.

“Hey, easy,” Peter says. He’s a vague presence at the edge of Deucalion’s attention, edging closer without actually trying to step in yet. “Easy does it, everybody.”

“Mom, stop—”

“He didn’t mean any harm,” Claudia says, cutting off her son’s protests. She meets Deucalion’s blood red stare without a flinch, her chin jutting defiantly. “Trespassing, sticking his nose in your business, all that, it was wrong. He’ll apologize, properly, and we’ll make reparations if you insist. But if you try to lay a hand on my son, alpha, you’ll have to come through me.”

“Mom!” Stiles’ hands are larger than Deucalion expected, with long, elegant fingers. They curl over his mother’s shoulders, trying to draw her back. “Oh my god, can everybody just calm the hell down, please? I was an idiot, I’m sorry, I get it, okay?” Big, amber eyes flicker up, catching Deucalion’s attention and meeting his gaze. Stiles’ stare is just as steady, just as unafraid, as his mother’s.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles repeats, earnestly this time. “For the trespassing. For bothering you. Okay?”

“Okay.” Deucalion wills the wolf to bleed from his vision, and keeps his voice perfectly level. “Apology accepted.” He holds Stiles’ stare for a moment longer, searching for something, before turning back to Claudia. “No harm done.”

The woman blinks, surprised.

“Fantastic,” Peter says, louder than necessary. He’s circled around during the rise in tensions, and now he’s close enough to reach out, nabbing Claudia by the arm, and scruffing Stiles. “I can’t take either of you troublemakers anywhere, I swear. Come on; it’s a hike back to the car, and I’m already dying for some air conditioning.”

There’s some fussing amongst the trio as they gather themselves to leave, but Deucalion doesn’t bother listening to it. He’s still thoroughly distracted by the scent he noticed a moment ago. It’s all he can smell now.

The boy smells like pine. Like loamy earth, clean laundry, and the pungency of teenage sweat.

But layered over all that, Stiles smells like _pack_.

It’s not possible.

It’s unmistakable.

Stiles smells like he belongs, and the rapid pulse of his heart keeps perfect time with the wild, covetous refrain crooning in the back of Deucalion’s mind.

 _Mine_ , the wolf in him howls, ravenous. _Mine. My own. Take have keep. **Mine**_.

“Wait.” Deucalion pauses, long enough to clear the rasp from his voice, and repress the echo of alpha. He tries again, more human this time. “Wait.”

Claudia looks back at him warily. Peter is smirking, arms crossed and head cocked. It’s an insufferably smug, unapologetic expression that Deucalion is tempted to literally tear off the man’s face.

But it’s Stiles’ reaction that truly holds Deucalion’s attention. The momentary flash of hope, as sudden and brilliant as a lightning strike. There and gone so quickly, it might never have existed at all.

“You mentioned reparations,” Deucalion says, and watches Claudia’s hands curl into fists at her sides. “If your son is so fascinated by my yard, he can help me clean it up. Plenty of brush to clear out back.”

“You’re in the middle of nowhere.” It doesn’t sound quite like an accusation, but Claudia’s eyes have narrowed. “And Stiles is losing his driving privileges for this little stunt, so he won’t be able to get out this far from town.” Stiles’ indignant squawk is eerily familiar. It helps firm Deucalion’s resolve, no matter how insane this all seems.

“I’m always running errands,” he says. “Back and forth to town. It won’t be any trouble to pick him up, and drop him off home again.” It might be overplaying his hand, but Deucalion can’t help himself. He glances at Peter. “A few weeks of yard work is reasonable repayment for the trespassing, and my due. If that’s a problem, bring it to Talia.”

“Quite reasonable,” Peter says beatifically, and the smugness doesn’t fade one iota. When Claudia rounds on him, Peter simply shrugs. “It’s more than fair, Dee. It’s not like the little idiot wasn’t warned to stay away; he can’t even plead ignorance. But, if you want, we’ll see what my sister has to say.”

“I’m willing to do it,” Stiles says, earning a pointed look from his mother.

“Of course you are.” Claudia exhales hard through her nose, and Deucalion takes the opportunity to unravel the various chemosignals wafting around her. The bitterness of worry is the strongest. The spice of anger is present, but it lacks any real bite, softened by rich, unwavering affection. And a touch of suspicion twists through it all, sour and almost metallic.

And chalk. Under it all, so faintly it’s barely noticeable even to an alpha’s nose, the woman smells of chalk. The dry musk of feathers. Interesting.

Regardless of anything else, Claudia Stilinski seems to love her son very much: a concerned mother, trying to keep her boy safe. That’s enough to endear her to Deucalion, even if she doesn’t return the sentiment. She obviously has no love for the alpha demanding reparations for Stiles’ mischief.

Her fears are certainly valid. She doesn’t know him. She has no reason to trust him, and numerous reasons to be afraid. Trespassers in a wolf’s den aren’t always lucky enough to walk away.

“We’ll consider it,” Claudia says eventually. “And I’ll speak with Talia.”

Deucalion nods; he doesn’t need to push farther. He’s very aware of the weight of Stiles’ gaze, but doesn’t acknowledge it.

Patience and prudence are his watchwords now. Perhaps _delusion_ , too, but he doesn’t think so.

Stiles smells like pack. That odd little detail makes Matthew’s conspicuous absence much easier to bear, once their guests shuffle off, and Deucalion is left alone again.


	5. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had a chance to respond to the comments on the last chapter yet, but you're all lovely <3
> 
> Discussion of what sort of creature Stiles is, coming up. Wherein I try to weave actual folklore and legend with what we know about TW canon creatures, while being respectful of the former (which, let's be real, means I have to ignore some TW canon, not sorry). Specifically? Shapeshifting raven/crow legends exist in several First Nations cultures, and while I may mention them, I’m not messing with any of them here. More info in the endnotes, with some spoilers.

Deucalion wanders into his house, shutting the front door firmly behind him. Peter Hale and the Stilinskis have made their escape, leaving disquiet and a torrent of questions in their wake.

His thoughts are racing. Now that he has his solitude again, all his buttresses of forced calm are collapsing. His instincts are telling him one incredible thing, vehemently. Howling, screaming at him, that Stiles Stilinski is pack. Is _his_.

A curious young man, lingering in his forest. A boy who, for a moment, had looked at Deucalion with such clear recognition. A yearning that echoed in the depths of Deucalion’s own breast.

He knows that boy. That scent. Those eyes. It seems his raven might be more wondrous and strange than he’d ever imagined.

Stiles is Matthew. Or, Matthew is Stiles. Thinking the words so plainly makes them no less shocking.

If it’s true, it means the boy is a shapeshifter, obviously. But what sort? He’s mischievous, but seems too benign to fit with the legends of skinwalkers. Deucalion doesn’t have enough information to be remotely certain of the boy’s heritage, but _Stilinski_ hardly seems like a Navajo name. Another sort of witch, possibly? But as far as he understands, it takes a massive amount of power and years of training for most magic users to change their shape beyond illusion. All of Deucalion’s senses tell him that Matthew is a real bird. A physical creature of flesh and blood. More than a parlour trick.

A _wereraven_? Deucalion considers himself fairly well-versed in supernatural topics, but he’s never encountered a creature like that.

There are instances, recorded in pack histories and hunters’ bestiaries alike, of individuals taking on different animal forms, and other odd reactions to an alpha’s bite. Those who favour the coyote rather than the wolf— largely solitary by nature, living alone or in pairs, with little interest in packs. Of foxes, mortals rather than spirits, but still as cunning and quick as a kitsune. The deadly curse of the kanima.

When Deucalion was a younger man, he’d once met a werelynx— a leery, taciturn woman, living with her human partner in a small town in Labrador. He’s heard rumour and folklore of werebears further north, and werejaguars in Central and South America, though he’s never encountered either.

And those are only examples of atypical lycanthropy, straying from the lupine but all rooted in the same bite. The same power that sustains the wolf in Deucalion’s own blood— the same transformation, but with different results. Dozens of possible variations, none of them remotely common compared to werewolves, though some of them eventually passed down through families and generations. Mutations born of fate or chance, or those remarkable personalities strong enough to overpower the very fabric of the supernatural.

The idea of a wereraven isn’t the strangest notion, but somehow, Deucalion isn’t convinced. Doubts nag at him.

Among werewolves, the ability to shift fully into a natural looking wolf is a wildly rare ability— Deucalion has only met three such individuals in his entire life, Talia included. All three were alphas: established, experienced, and very powerful. Two were Hales by blood. He’s wondered, more than once, whether the potential might be inherited through certain bloodlines.

He’s never heard of a teenager who could change their form so completely, to be indistinguishable from a natural animal. Not like this.

He half-expects to hear the beat of wings, and find Matthew perched on a window ledge. His dear raven, his darling boy, returning after having been scared away by their unexpected guests. Still a sweet, clever little bird, and nothing else: remarkable in countless ways, but technically mundane. Any perceived similarities between him and Stiles Stilinski, merely the product of Deucalion’s imagination.

But he knew that boy. The sight and the smell of him. In the darkest, wildest corners of his heart, he knew him.

Deucalion _knows_. Instinctively. Viscerally. Even if he has no idea how or why, or even what the hell Stiles might be. No firm idea what Matthew is, other than _his_.

Occam’s razor. _Lex parsimoniae._ Perhaps the simplest answer is the correct one.

Perhaps he’s simply gone utterly mad.

His laptop is sitting quietly on the coffee table, but Deucalion bypasses it for now, in favour of the bookshelves. Some of his resources have been digitized, but others are only hardcopies. Cracked leather tomes with brown, foxed pages. Volumes of parchment, paper-thin calfskin, carefully preserved and bound.

His library at the old house near the Oregon border, his pack’s house, had been expansive. A few years ago, one of his betas decided to take it upon herself to start scanning and cataloguing it all, beginning with the older texts and working forward. An attempt to drag him into the digital age. _Kicking and screaming if necessary,_ she’d always say with a wink, and Deucalion would roll his eyes and grumble like a curmudgeonly old man. Mostly for show. As nostalgic as he could get about the weight of a book in his hands, he couldn’t honestly deny the convenience of searchable PDFs.

But he has no betas, anymore. Marissa is dead, along with the others. Most of Deucalion’s books are in storage. A fraction of them are in the cottage— some still in boxes in the spare room, and a few on his shelves. A meagre portion of his collection. The cottage has much less space to spare compared to the old house, and Deucalion hasn’t had the drive to sort and unpack much of anything beyond the necessities.

Starting at the shelf closest to the couch, he runs a hand along a row of spines, considering. He could begin by leaving lycanthropy aside for the moment, and narrowing things down to specifically avian creatures he’s actually heard of: harpies, thunderbirds, garudas, and maybe a handful of others. But not one of those seems to fit what he knows of Matthew.

He pauses, staring at the shelf. At the trinkets scattered around the books.

“Oh.” Deucalion blinks. Two thoughts strike him at nearly the exact same time, both troublesome. “Shit. _Shit_.”

What was it Claudia had said before they left? _I’ll speak with Talia_.

By the tone of her voice, he probably ought to expect company, soon. Talia hasn’t actually stepped foot inside the cottage in quite some time, however. Not in months. She hasn’t been privy to all this evidence of Matthew’s presence in his life, in his home, and in his _bed_.

Deucalion takes a breath, brutally shoving that thought aside, and plucks one of Matthew’s gifts from its shelf. A glass catseye marble, with streaks of yellow, white, and green in the centre. The wisest course of action, he thinks, will be to assume Talia knows everything about Stiles, while pretending that he knows nothing. He’ll wait to see how Talia decides to approach this, and how much information she volunteers to share with him. How many secrets she keeps.

Whether or not she really does know what Stiles is. Whether or not she shares that knowledge.

Rolling the marble between his fingers, Deucalion takes another breath. Counts his own heartbeats for a few moments. Waits for his pulse to slow down again.

Because his second troubling thought might be more than he can deal with, right now.

Has he truly, and unknowingly, been spending hours on end in the company of a teenage boy for the past months? Indulging and spoiling him, feeding and petting… _Cuddling_.

Dear lord, Deucalion has been naked in front of Matthew, numerous times. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t bother him in the slightest— like most werewolves, he isn’t terribly hung up about nudity— but there’s something unseemly about the covertness of the whole thing. The deceit.

And, so much worse than that, he’s spoken to the bird at length. About everything from the banal to the deeply personal. He’s been chatting to Matthew like an old friend. A confidant. Baring his soul, as well as his arse.

It’s mostly luck that he avoids crushing his laptop when he sits down on the coffee table, hard. The marble hits the floor a split second later, bouncing and rolling away across the rug.

He’s grown so comfortable with Matthew in his space, that his filters have been all but nonexistent. He has split himself open, flayed wide and raw.

In those quiet, empty moments when despair cuts into him too fiercely, laying him low, Deucalion has wept. Sometimes with no warning except wet cheeks and terrible silence, stock-still and lost in the past. Other times, a ruinous wreck, caught unaware by his grief and reduced to sobbing like a child.

Matthew has been with him, in his lap or on his shoulder, with his soothing company and gravelly purring. Silken feathers and warm weight under Deucalion’s hands, anchoring him in the present. The flutter of a tiny heart, vital and alive, reminding Deucalion he isn’t so crushingly alone in the world.

 _Stiles_ has been there.

Coaxing him out of bed, on those days when the numbness threatened to suffocate him utterly. Chasing away the worst reminants of his nightmares, banishing the shivers and stink of poisoned smoke, with a croak and a ruffle of feathers. Reminding Deucalion to eat, because Matthew would demand food. Demand attention, petting and affection, and Deucalion could provide none of that without getting up. Getting moving.

A faint, sour curl of embarrassment makes his wolf snap in admonishment— _pack **mine** safe_— and Deucalion clenches his jaw. His hands are curled over his knees, claws pricking through his trousers. By rights, he should be furious, mortified, that he’s been coddled by a teenager. That he has shared those moments, vulnerable and weak, with a virtual stranger.

But Stiles isn’t a stranger. And Deucalion isn’t sure how to process the peculiarities of this situation. The deception doesn’t truly rankle much at all; the sense of betrayal he expects doesn’t materialise.

Stiles is pack and that, apparently, is all that matters.

 

* * *

 

When Talia knocks on his front door later that evening, Deucalion is neither surprised, nor unprepared.

He’s already gone through the house, tidying up. It makes his heart ache to gather up the evidence of Matthew’s presence and hide it all away, to throw the windows open and air out all but the faintest whiff of feathers, but it’s a strategic necessity. He isn’t sure what precisely has been going on, isn’t clear on every detail, or even what type of creature Stiles _is_. With that many questions unanswered, Deucalion is wary about laying all his cards on the table so soon.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he says flatly, leaning against the door frame, and doesn’t move aside to invite Talia inside. “Now, or earlier today. Your brother looks well.”

The low simmer of his anger is entirely justified, and Talia agrees, if her chagrined wince is any indication.

“I could have handled the situation better,” she says. “I just… I thought dealing with it that way would be the least intrusive option. I screwed up.”

Deucalion nods. “You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Good. Thank you.” Finally shifting to one side, Deucalion sweeps an arm back, gesturing into the cottage. “Come in, if you like. I’ll put the kettle on.”

He’ll give credit where it’s due: Talia is subtler now. If he hadn’t been watching so carefully, he probably would have missed the flare of her nostrils, and the way her gaze flickers over every inch of his home. She’s searching. Investigating.

They’re both settled at his small dining table, with steaming mugs of tea and store-bought blueberry scones between them, before Talia brings it up.

“You asked Claudia’s son to do yard work for you.” It isn’t a question, but Deucalion hums his agreement anyway. “As a punishment.”

“As reparation,” he corrects, perfectly casual. “Nothing dire. I could use an extra set of hands clearing brush, to make space for the garden. I’d like to have it done before Marin comes home.”

“Claudia is a dear friend,” Talia says, apropos of nothing, and yet so pertinent to the discussion they’re both dancing around. Such a clear warning. “John, her husband, is the county sheriff. A good man. I’ve known Stiles his whole life— he’s Cora’s age. Smart as a whip, but not a single tactful bone in his body. Nosy as hell, clinically hyperactive, and terminally sarcastic. I love him like a son, but he’ll drive you up the wall, Deuc.”

“If he’s too irritating, I’ll send him home.” Deucalion doesn’t have to fake his amusement; Talia’s just described Matthew to a T. “No harm, no foul. I promise I won’t eat the boy, no matter how much he gets on my nerves.”

Talia doesn’t look amused by his exaggeration, or remotely convinced. In fact, she doesn’t seem willing to look at Deucalion at all, focusing on her mug instead. There’s something troubling about the tightness around her mouth.

“Talia,” he says, sitting up straighter. “You’re scowling like I’ve demanded an indentured servant for a year, or the boy’s liver on a plate. It’s yard work. I’ll be doing most of the heavy lifting; he’ll just be a dogsbody, mostly fetching odds and ends. What’s the problem?”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” He thinks he might understand her hesitance— Stiles is something strange, something wondrous, and Talia wants to keep the boy’s secret. It’s the reaction he’d anticipated, really. But then Talia lifts her eyes to meet his, and her next words are not at all what he expects. “Don’t make me say it. Please.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded, for a long moment. Then, all at once, the truth strikes him like a knife to the heart.

“You don’t trust me.” It feels as though the floor has opened up beneath his feet. “You think… What exactly do you think I’ll do?”

“Stiles is loud,” Talia says. “He’s spirited. And you’ve been avoiding company for months. You’re tense, Deuc, and understandably so. I don’t know how well you’ll handle having the boy underfoot, in your home, when you’re used to the quiet. I don’t want a clash of personalities to escalate into something unfortunate.”

“You’re worried I’ll hurt him?” The weight of Talia’s answering silence makes him see red, literally. All other colour washes from the world as anger sharpens the wolf in his eyes, and he knows they’re glowing crimson. “How could you— You’ve known me for over twenty years. You asked me to be your own children’s guardian, if something ever happened to your pack. And now you don’t trust me to keep my temper in check around a sixteen-year-old boy?”

“I trust the man I’ve known for over twenty years.” Talia’s eyes remain deep brown; her tone is subdued and sad. The pity makes him want to snarl, to gnash his teeth, but he holds back. Barely. “I’m not sure I trust the man who turned Gerard Argent and a dozen other hunters into ground chuck.”

“You’re joking.” Neither of them are laughing. “I paid back slaughter in kind, as was my right. Blood for blood, the only way those bastards understand. In the same circumstances, you think you wouldn’t have done the same?”

“I don’t know.” Talia shakes her head. “But no, I imagine I would have, and I’m not sure I would’ve had the strength to stop afterward. The strength you had.” He hadn’t wanted to stop, at the time. The slickness of hot blood on his hands, in his mouth, had been the only warmth he could feel. The only respite from the merciless cold, the endless void, torn open behind his ribs.

He’s not sure he would have stopped, if not for the tiny spark of pack— _hope family anchor_ — flickering weakly in the core of him. If not for Marin.

Emissaries are meant to keep a pack tethered to humanity. Deucalion can’t think of a more grueling test of that bond than what the pair of them suffered together, and survived.

“I won’t pretend I understand the depths of your losses, Deuc,” Talia says, almost too carefully for him to stomach. “And I’m not saying you weren’t well within your rights. But something like that… It changes a person. It’s changed you.”

“Of course it has. How could it not?” Pushing his tea aside, Deucalion levels one of his dearest friends with a hard look. He doesn’t wait for her answer, because he doesn’t care to hear it. “I appreciate your position. I’ll admit, I can understand your concerns. But I can’t forgive them. Not now.”

“Deuc—”

“No.” He doesn’t raise his voice, or allow even the barest growl to creep in. “Get out of my house, Alpha Hale. Before one of us says something we’ll regret.”

 

* * *

 

After Talia leaves, he goes for a run in the waning moonlight. Buries his anger, his hurt, beneath the crack of his bones and stretch of his muscles, shedding his human skin. When he frees the massive, twisted beast that rages in his heart, he looks every inch the monster she thinks he is.

As he said, he understands her fears. Her doubts. No one doubts his own sanity more often than he does, in any given day. He knows the twists and turns his mind takes now, through the dark.

Nothing is truly broken beyond mending. Not between Talia and himself, at least.

Deep in the Preserve, he finds a small herd of boar, foraging through the underbrush. He shakes the trees with the strength of his roar, sends them running, squealing into the night, but unharmed.

Shifted like this, it’s both harder and easier to bear the memories of his lost betas. Keeping the wolf in the fore of his mind helps anchor him in the present, but his emotions are heightened as well as his senses.

Marco always had a taste for boar, as did Noah and Elena. Marissa and Jamie preferred rabbit. Cameron invariably called them all barbarians, while stuffing his face with fast food burgers and terrible pizza.

He would have drowned the world in blood to keep them safe. Some days, he feels as though he is drowning in it. Iron flood his mouth, his nose, and he cannot breathe.

His vengence was necessary, it was righteous, but it was poison too. A cold comfort now, when he wakes with a scream in his throat. They’re still dead. He’s still here.

Deucalion can’t lose another packmate. Not one more.

There isn’t enough of him left, to survive losing another piece.

 

* * *

 

After his recent string of visitors, Deucalion isn’t sure what’s coming when he hears a vehicle rumbling noisily up his driveway the next morning. He’s half-expecting Talia to return. Possibly with a few betas in tow and the intent to evict him, or possibly with more unwanted sympathy and soft-edged judgement.

He’s not looking forward to either option.

What he actually gets is a bright blue jeep, skidding in too fast, and parking haphazardly beside his truck. He doesn’t recognise the vehicle, but he certainly knows the two teenagers inside.

“You’re a nightmare,” Stiles is raving, as he clambers out of the jeep’s passenger side in a mess of long, uncoordinated limbs. “You just shaved ten years of my freakin’ life with that last turn, you absolute lunatic. You’re never driving my baby again, oh my _god_.”

“Then I guess you’re walking home.” Cora’s exit is much more graceful, as she calmly unfolds herself from behind the steering wheel, and slams the car door. “Because you’re not allowed to drive him for a month, remember?”

“Yeah, well, that’s cruel and unusual, and I’m in the process of appealing the decision. Hey, could you not crush my doors with your power arms, Gina Carano? That’d be great.”

“It’s the jeep or you, Stilinski.” Cora lunges playfully, making Stiles yelp. It seems they haven’t even noticed they have an audience. Or they simply don’t care.

“Good morning,” Deucalion calls from the porch. He keeps his arms crossed; the urge to gather Stiles up and hide him away is strong. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hey, Uncle Deuc.” Cora hasn’t seen him in months, but she doesn’t hesitate to approach. Always the bold one, even when she was a toddling pup. She stops at the foot of the steps, and cocks a thumb toward Stiles. “Brought you the peon you asked for, as per Mom’s request-slash-order.”

Loitering over beside the jeep, Stiles offers a tentative wave. “That’s me. Hello. Stiles Stilinski, reporting for yard duty. Sir.”

“Hm.” Deucalion is hyper-vigilant now, when it comes to offers that appear too good to be true. That’s a lesson learned a very hard way; he’ll die before he forgets it again. “Cora, dear, forgive me, but your mother didn’t seem terribly thrilled with this idea yesterday. What’s changed?”

“Dunno.” Cora shrugs. “Didn’t ask. But I’m supposed to stick around.”

How charming. Talia has thoughtfully provided him with a babysitter, in the form of her youngest daughter.

“But as per Uncle Peter’s bribe,” Cora continues. “I’m gonna get the hell out of here. If you promise Stiles will still be in one piece when I get back.”

“A bribe?” Things are suddenly getting more interesting by the minute. It seems there are at least a few machinations happening within the Hale pack. And, naturally, whatever game is being played has Peter Hale’s stink all over it.

Deucalion has no idea how he found himself in the middle, but he’s more than willing to take advantage.

“Mmhm.” Cora looks up at him, very seriously, and doesn’t offer any further explanation. “So, you promise?”

“I promise.” It’s easy enough to say, and it’s the absolute truth. “He’ll still be healthy and whole when I’m finished with him. I won’t harm a single hair on his head, you have my word.”

“Good.” Apparently satisfied, Cora turns to Stiles. “I’ll be back to get you before dinner. Sometime after three, probably. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck, grinning crookedly. “Thanks, dude.”

“Don’t mention it,” Cora says. “Seriously. Don’t ever mention it. Mom’ll have my ass, and if that happens, I’m taking you both down with me. Peter, too.”

“Totally fair.” Stiles accepts a fist bump as Cora passes. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me several, dork. Good luck with... whatever. Later, Uncle Deuc.” With a lazy wave, Cora breaks into a jog, headed back toward the highway on foot.

Deucalion listens to the retreating sound of trainers padding over packed earth, until Cora gets too far away, and he and Stiles are entirely alone. The boy hasn’t moved an inch, still idling on the far side of the jeep.

The silence is full of so many unspoken things, Deucalion isn’t quite sure how to begin.

But, in the end, he’s rather used to leading the conversation between them.

“We’ll be clearing out back,” he says, breaking the strange peace, and Stiles visibly startles. “And we ought to get started before the heat of the day. I might have spare gloves, if you didn’t think to bring any. Some of the brush is thorny enough to ruin your hands, and I’d hate to think a hawthorn bush made a liar of me.”

It’s probably cruel to find amusement in the widening of Stiles’ eyes, and the nervous scuff of his trainers. To be fair, if Deucalion isn’t entirely delusional, the young man hasn’t be exactly forthright with him, either. A brief bit of teasing is meagre payback for weeks, _months_ , of lying by omission.

“I, uh—” Stiles is utterly lost, obviously expecting a warmer welcome. A more perceptive welcome, at the very least.

Luckily for Stiles, Deucalion can’t bear to leave him twisting too long. He wants his boy.

“Or,” Deucalion says, finally allowing the smile he’s been holding back to bloom across his face. “You could come inside, and we could talk.”

Stiles’ gaze sharpens, piercing as it scans his expression, as though searching desperately for something. Deucalion allows the scrutiny without complaint, drinking it in greedily.

He knows those keen eyes, and the curious tip of that head. He sees Matthew so clearly in this human body, and the last stubborn scraps of doubt in his mind crumble and fall away. He feels free enough, light enough, that taking this final leap is the simplest thing in the world.

“You’re a handsome little thing,” he says, exactly as he’d done months ago, outside a butcher’s shop. This time, unlike that first time, his friend decides against keeping his distance.

Between one breath and the next, Stiles is sprinting, closing the space separating them in a handful of strides. When Deucalion’s arms open wide, welcoming, there isn’t an instant of hesitation.

Stiles is much heavier than Matthew, with his hollow bird bones, could ever hope to be. But Deucalion is not a small man, and he’s a werewolf besides. The added weight of one slim teenager, even leaping against his chest, is an easy burden to bear. A deeply satisfying burden.

“Asshole,” Stiles gasps, pressing his face into Deucalion’s throat and winding his arms around anything he can reach. “You— I thought you didn’t— _Asshole_!”

Deucalion doesn’t deny the insult; he’s far too distracted by the velvety softness of Stiles’ buzzed hair, and inhaling huge lungfuls of scent. Of pine and chalk, layered under an amalgam of shampoo, sugar, and sweat. Of teenage musk— hormones and sex, and the fresh tang of a body so recently ripened, flirting with adulthood.

The scent of _pack_.

“Mine,” Deucalion rumbles, like distant thunder. He nuzzles until he finds an ear, and drags his mouth across it. “My darling. _Mine_.”

“Holy shit—” Deucalion doesn’t wince as Stiles’ blunt fingers bite into his shoulders; they’re more forgiving than Matthew’s talons. When Stiles arches forward, trying to climb Deucalion like a tree, it feels perfectly natural to grab his thighs and hoist him up.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Stiles says again, whining under his breath, as he locks his ankles behind Deucalion’s back. They’re still on the porch, in the open. Deucalion has his hands cupped around a teenager’s firm little arse, and a pair of spindly legs are wrapped around his waist.

This escalated very quickly, and yet, it feels as though it’s taken them a lifetime to get here.

Getting them both inside the cottage is a stumbling mess, an utter embarrassment, but Deucalion manages. The warm, wet hiccoughs of breath against his neck are nearly enough to weaken his knees, as Stiles clings, trying to burrow impossibly closer. Trusting Deucalion to carry him, to keep him safe.

“Tell me,” Deucalion rasps, kicking the door shut behind them. The rest of the world, save Marin, can go to hell. “Tell me.”

The house is bright, with morning sunlight streaming in the open windows, but Deucalion wheels them toward the living room with all the grace of a drunk in the dark. His knees hit the edge of the couch, and he tumbles them down, looming over Stiles’ prone body. Caging his prey, and pulling back just enough to meet wild amber eyes.

“Tell me,” he says, dragging a hand up Stiles’ throat, pressing his thumb against the moles that dot his pale jaw. He wants to lick them, to feel their subtle texture with the flat of his tongue, and once Stiles tells him what he wants to hear, Deucalion will indulge himself.

“ _Cailleach_ ,” Stiles starts to say, tripping over the torrent of words that spill out of him, and fisting his hands in Deucalion’s t-shirt. “Shape— A shapeshifter, but I’m not— Not the same as you. Not like a werewolf, sort of like a werewolf. It’s different. It’s… damn, okay. There were these witches, right—”

“Stiles.” He quiets the boy with fingers pressing gently against plush pink lips, then soothes him even more, with a kiss on the forehead. “Shh, clever boy. I want— I want to hear it all. I want to know you, my darling. But that isn’t what I meant.”

Stiles makes a confused noise, croaky and not entirely human, and Deucalion loves him. He loves this beautiful creature so fiercely, down in his blood and marrow, and even deeper. With everything he has left, he loves him.

“Tell me,” he says again, because Talia is right: he has changed. He may have been a good man, once. “That you’re mine. My _pack_. Tell me I can keep you.”

He isn’t a good man anymore.

The boy is no more than sixteen, and trapped at the mercy of an alpha werewolf. A profoundly damaged, forty-four-year-old alpha werewolf, with an admittedly dubious relationship with sanity and stability on his bad days.

Today, with Stiles pinned under him, Deucalion can feel the cracks in his control, straining. He’s so hungry— starving for this boy.

It isn’t a sexual urge. Not entirely. But, heaven help him, it’s far from chaste.

This is wrong on every conceivable level. This… this isn’t the man he wants to be.

“No,” he says, mostly to himself. His hand is still a loose muzzle around Stiles’ soft mouth. “No, _fuck_. I’m sorry.”

Deucalion exhales, and pushes himself mentally and physically away from the heinous mistake he’d been in the midst of making. Or, he tries— when he starts to sit up, the limbs tangled around him to tighten their hold. Stiles clings like a particularly persistent vine.

“Hey, whoa,” Stiles says, the moment his mouth is free. “What are you— No, no sorries. Get back here, c’mon.”

“I can’t.” Gently, so gently, Deucalion tries to pry the boy’s grasping hands away. Every point of contact between them makes him ache for more, and he hates himself nearly as much as he loves Stiles. “I _can’t_ , Stiles. Please.”

It’s the _please_ , or perhaps the way his voice breaks over the word, that convinces Stiles to release him. When the boy’s limbs go mercifully limp, falling away from their broken embrace, Deucalion barely swallows back the pitiful whimper threatening to escape his throat.

“Okay,” Stiles says, more breath than sound. Deucalion can smell embarrassment, the vinegary brine of shame, as Stiles visibly shrinks back in on himself. “I didn’t— I’m sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

Reaching out, cupping Stiles’ jaw, is a terrible idea. But the need to comfort, to soothe his boy’s sadness, is far stronger than any self-control Deucalion has ever possessed.

“Hush.” He tries desperately to ignore the way Stiles cranes into his palm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The intimacy of pack, the craving to touch and be touched, is overwhelming. It’s a balm, like the first sip of cool water when Deucalion has been wandering this desert, parched and alone, for so long. It sustains him, even as it wakes the thirst in him and makes him yearn for more.

He’s been able to control this crazed appetite whenever he visits Marin. He can control it now.

Stiles wriggles, lifting himself up on his elbows. Not quite sitting, but no longer splayed loose across the cushions. Deucalion is still half kneeling, with one foot on the floor, and his knee braced on the couch beside Stiles’ hip.

“I can change,” Stiles says, and it’s too damned easy for Deucalion to let his hand slide down. To palm the boy’s neck, fingers curling lightly, and feel the stretch of tendon and the thrum of a too-quick pulse. “I can— Whenever I want. I can shift.”

Stiles pauses, takes a breath, and stares up at Deucalion with such audacious, sincere trust. It makes his eyes gleam, like polished copper. It’s beautiful, but the uncertainty in his voice is agonizing.

“It’s easier, right? It’ll be easier. Then you can… Will you hold me, if I’m Matthew? Please?”

Deucalion isn’t a good man. He’s allowed his own failings to sow doubt in Stiles’ heart, and that’s unacceptable.

“My dear boy, no.” Stiles recoils from the refusal, but Deucalion doesn’t let that misunderstanding go any further. It’s almost no effort at all to gather Stiles close, sitting back on the couch and settling the lanky teenager in his lap.

Stiles melts into it, murmuring gratefully when Deucalion’s arms wrap around him. This is wrong, but Deucalion can’t bear to do less. The pack bond is real, and he is Stiles’ alpha. He has a responsibility to provide, and to keep his pack safe and well.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, stroking the curve of Stiles’ back. Cotton t-shirt or inky feathers, makes no difference to him. “You’re always you. Always welcome. I will never, _never_ turn you away, Stiles. Do you understand?”

Stiles doesn’t speak, just hugs Deucalion tighter. Drags his cheek along chest, throat, beard— scenting brazenly. It warms Deucalion to his core.

“You’re mine.” His voice is a growl, and the words are too much. Too soon. He snakes a hand under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, skin to skin, possessively spanning the small of his back. “In every skin you wear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s raven/crow shapeshifting in Gaelic myth, and I feel far more comfortable screwing around with the folklore of my own heritage, rather than trying to fumble my way through someone else’s. So yeah, I’ve basically cobbled together a new creature, instead of plumbing the depths of established mythologies for a raven shapeshifter exactly like I wanted. I could've gone with simply wereraven, I suppose, but ehhh. 
> 
> Cailleach means hag; in Gaelic mythology, the Cailleach (capital C) can refer to a deity, a “sacred crone” figure. Here, we’ve got cailleach, lowercase, which I’m using for my own nefarious purposes. More information about what Stiles is, and what he can do, will come in the next chapter.


	6. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven't replied to comments yet, because I am a shit. But hey, new chapter!
> 
>  **This chapter has explicit underage sex.** [pops confetti gun]

They sit like that for over an hour, twined together on the couch, not talking. Peacefully relishing each other’s company. Deucalion discovers that even in his human form, Stiles enjoys being scratched under the chin. He makes nearly the same noises, too. Gravelly but soft, not quite purring as he bares his throat to Deucalion’s fingers.

Ignoring the burgeoning erection bumping between them requires generous application of purely rational thought: Stiles is a sixteen-year-old boy. In all likelihood, he gets hard when the wind changes. It doesn’t mean anything.

Even if it does— if, somehow, this is more than simple friction and proximity to any warm body— Stiles is a _sixteen-year-old boy_. Deucalion can’t allow it to mean anything more.

He viciously ignores all the things he might want it to mean.

This time, it’s Stiles who breaks the silence.

“You can, y’know,” he whispers, muffled against Deucalion’s collarbone. The only response is a hum of inquiry, and a brush of lips against the back of Stiles’ head. “You can keep me.”

The words ring in Deucalion’s skull like church bells. Heavy, but with crystal clarity. Profound.

He doesn’t pull away. He keeps his boy cradled close, and his eyes squeezed firmly shut against the realities of the world. Blocking out all the reasons this is such a terrible mistake. Stiles keeps speaking.

“You can,” he says, with firm conviction and a steady pulse. “You _will_. Hey, you couldn’t get rid of me now if you tried, so don’t get any stupid ideas. Because you’re mine, too. I found you, chose you. Claimed you.”

It’s dangerously close to exactly what Deucalion aches to hear. It’s too perfect. He can’t speak over the lump in his throat, but it doesn’t matter. He has no idea what to say.

Stiles must interpret the silence as skepticism, because after a long moment, Deucalion is being prodded in the chest by an insistent finger.

“I’m serious.” Stiles leans back, cards long fingers through the tangle of Deucalion’s shaggy hair, pushing it away from his brow. “You think I bring awesome presents to every werewolf who offers me lunch? I’m not that easy, mister.”

“I had to put them away.” Stiles hasn’t asked, but Deucalion needs to explain. “Your gifts. I thought Talia might drop in unannounced, and it seemed wiser to keep some things private, for now. Was I right?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Stiles’ blunt nails scrape lightly across Deucalion’s scalp, tracing slow patterns. It’s blissful. “It’s not… It’s my choice. Talia can’t stop me, picking you. Neither can my mom, really. But they’re not gonna like it.” Curiosity burns in him, white hot, but patience is something Deucalion has in spades, even now. Gerard Argent didn’t manage to carve that out of him. He waits, lets Stiles choose his words as gradually as he wants.

“There aren’t many of us left,” Stiles says eventually, with his gaze fixed somewhere around Deucalion’s shoulder. “Cailleachan. And there’s no bite or anything like that, to make more. Just bloodlines. Families. Me and my mom, we’re the only ones here.”

“Your father?” Deucalion asks the question gingerly, but the boy doesn’t tense up.

“Dad? He’s human.” Stiles blinks, lifting his eyes. When he smiles, it’s a bit wan. “But he’s up to speed on the whole supernatural thing. Pretty sure he would’ve gone nuts if he didn’t know what the deal is, trying to be sheriff in Beacon freaking County. We’re sitting on a _uniquely potent confluence of telluric currents,_ if you wanna get druidic and weird about it. You know there’s a dormant Nemeton in the woods?”

“I’d heard a rumour.” Never actually laid eyes on the thing, never tried to seek it out. But there are plenty of old stories about this little corner of Northern California.

“Back when my mom’s family came here, I guess it wasn’t so dormant.” That would’ve been many years ago. Decades, at least. When Deucalion says as much, Stiles simply shrugs. “A couple generations. I think we’ve been here as long as the Hales. Maybe longer.”

Deucalion considers that for a moment, butting his head against Stiles’ hand as he absorbs the information. It earns him a huffy laugh, and more petting.

“You know,” he says, after taking a moment to simply enjoy the attention. “I have a few questions.”

Stiles’ grin widens, gains some teeth along with some genuine amusement. “Figured, yeah.”

Before he can ask a single one, there’s a gurgle, but not the same sort Matthew makes. This sounds wetter and lower, in the vicinity of their stomachs.

The dusting of pink that stains across Stiles’ cheeks is far too pretty. Deucalion can’t help but touch, tracing the flush of heat with the pad of his thumb.

“But first,” he says. “Let’s see about lunch.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles still perches on the counter while the sandwiches are being assembled. Instead of talons clicking across formica, Deucalion butters bread with the dull drumming of fingers as background noise.

“You said a name before, Stiles, and I didn’t quite catch it. Cally-something.” Stiles has enough manners to swallow most of the cracker he’s munching before he answers.

“Cailleach.” The word has a harsh, throaty finish, but trips easily off Stiles’ tongue. “Cailleachan, is plural. Just call me a raven, though; it’s totally fine. ‘Cause I don’t know about you, but my Gaelic is crap. Then again, at some point you decided to call yourself _Deucalion_ , so I guess somebody likes a challenge.”

“Maybe my given name was worse.” A tomato splits into neat slices under Deucalion’s knife. It’s not remotely surprising that, given the power of speech, Matthew is a smartarse. “I imagine a young man calling himself _Stiles Stilinski_ might be able to relate.”

“Hey, I’ve been Stiles since I was five years old, and believe me, it’s a mercy for everybody.”

“And I’ve been Deucalion longer than you’ve been alive.” Too many years ago, before he’d even left England the first time, as a young, wide-eyed fool. Sloughing off the names his parents gave him had felt like a rebirth, at the time. Now the name feels like _him_. “Maybe I simply wanted to distance myself from my past. A fresh start.”

“Everything washed clean, huh? Purification. Like a flood.” Deucalion levels a sideways look at the boy sitting on his counter. “What? I read. I do my research, maybe a little obsessively sometimes. And, congrats, you’re the most interesting thing I’ve ever wanted to know everything about.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good.” The box of crackers rattles as Stiles fishes another one out. “Ask me something.”

“All right.” Cutting the sandwiches into quarters, Deucalion slides one plate toward Stiles’ hip. They ought to move over to the table, sit a respectable distance from each other and eat like civilized people, but neither of them acknowledge it. “What exactly did you mean, you’ve _claimed_ me?”

A fine spray of crumbs fly outward when Stiles coughs, not quite choking. Nothing dangerous, but the glare he shoots Deucalion’s way might be.

“Guess we’re gonna totally bypass beating around the bush, huh?” Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, and clears his throat dramatically. “Okay, fine. You know, with normal wolves and ravens, the symbiosis thing? I know you looked it up.” At Deucalion’s nod, Stiles carries on, picking up steam.

“It’s like that, with us. With ravens like me, and wolves like you. Or, wolves like the Hales. Except cailleachan are super rare now, so finding one attached to a werewolf pack is literally almost impossible. Being a myth has a lot of advantages, right? Most humans are easier to deal with when they don’t know the supernatural exists. Ignorance is bliss, for both sides. Same goes for me and my mom, and the rest of the supernatural world.”

Deucalion hums, finishing a bite of his food. “I’ve certainly never heard of anything like you, my dear, and I’ve been around for quite a while. But, more things in heaven and earth, I suppose.”

“It’s always been safer for us,” Stiles says. “And more strategic for the pack, if we don’t exactly advertise. Sorta like emissaries, but not every pack has a raven. Not every raven chooses a pack. Not even when there were more of us kicking around.”

“I’m guessing the Hales are one of those very rare packs, with a raven of their own.” Stiles doesn’t reply, suddenly entirely engrossed in nibbling the crust off a triangle of sandwich.

Deucalion waits, working his way through some of his own lunch. Eventually, in the interest of continuing their discussion, he cuts the boy a break.

“And I’m guessing—” He reaches into the cupboard beside Stiles’ shoulder, pulling down a pair of drinking glasses. It brings them very close together, and Stiles doesn’t flinch away, even if he still isn’t looking Deucalion in the face. “That whether or not I’m right, it’s none of my business. Luckily, the inner workings of the Hale pack aren’t my concern, as long as they don’t pose a risk to me and mine. So, we’ll leave it there. I have orange juice, milk, or water. Or I can make tea. Whatever you like.”

“Uh.” The sudden change of topic seems to throw Stiles for a loop, but the boy rallies, as Deucalion expects. “Milk’s good, thanks. You like orange juice with extra pulp, you total weirdo.”

“I don’t actually have a preference.” Taking the jug of semi-skimmed from the fridge, Deucalion pours a tall glass. “I didn’t even read the label before I bought it. But now that I know you feel so strongly about it, my dear, I’ll be sure to do better next time.”

A blotchy flush creeps over the apples of Stiles’ cheeks again, petal pink and immensely appealing. He takes a long swig when Deucalion passes the glass over, and his tongue is even pinker, swiping out to chase the milk left along his top lip.

Deucalion pours a drink for himself, instead of staring. He’s treading a very fine line.

“The Hales aren’t mine,” Stiles says, after downing another smaller sip of his milk. “I don’t have a pack.”

“Yes you do.” The words are spoken, let loose into the world, before Deucalion can reconsider. When Stiles’ eyes dart to him, Deucalion doesn’t have the strength to deny the yearning in them. “Not much of one, admittedly. Just a half-mad hermit of an alpha, and an infirm emissary. But you have a pack, raven, if you choose.”

“I already chose.” Setting his glass on the counter, Stiles squirms, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. Deucalion has to move closer, ostensibly to save the milk from being knocked over.

He stays close, his hip bumping against Stiles’ knees, even after the boy makes a sound of triumph, fishing out a very familiar bit of gold.

“Already chose,” Stiles repeats, holding the knotwork ring between them. “Chose you, a while ago. Try to keep up, wolf.”

Deucalion curls his fingers around Stiles’ hand, but makes no attempt to take the ring. “Your mother’s ring?”

“ _My_ ring.” Stiles’ grin is lopsided, and more than a little cheeky. Deucalion wants to taste it, to lick that neat row of pearly teeth. “I know what Aunt Tal told you, but she was wrong. Not her fault; it’s a family ring. Mine now, though.”

“I see.” Tilting his head, Deucalion studies the boy rather than the ring. “Yours. And you want me to have it?”

“My ring, my wolf,” Stiles says. Simple words, but they couldn’t be mistaken for flippant. Deucalion feels them sweep over him like a physical caress. “My pack. Take it. And don’t lose it again.”

A family ring. An inheritance, perhaps. Deucalion had treasured it, but hadn’t truly realised its weight when it hung from his neck the first time.

He crowds even closer, bracing his free hand on the edge of the countertop, fencing Stiles in. He doesn’t wedge himself between the vee of Stiles’ thighs, keeping to one side. There are _lines_ , even if they’re becoming harder to see. Blurring as he skates along them, pushing the boundaries.

“Stiles.” He draws the name out, savouring the smooth, rolling sibilance. Names are important, doubly so to extraordinary beasts like them; he’ll taste the consonants, instead of Stiles’ smile. For now. “Out of curiosity, have I been engaged to a raven for the past week and a half?”

“What?” Stiles blinks, too fast, and his mouth works in stammered, half-formed denials. “It’s not— No, I mean, I didn’t—”

Deucalion allows his own smile to curl, slow and devilishly amused. It takes a moment for Stiles to notice, but when he does, the appreciative double-take reaction is actually rather flattering. Potentially inappropriate, Deucalion struggles to remind himself, but flattering.

It’s been a long time since he gave a single meaningful thought to his appearance. He keeps his beard trimmed because it’s irritating otherwise, but he hasn’t bothered with a haircut. The clothes he found in the cottage, provided by Talia, are simple, sturdy, and comfortable— jeans and canvas slacks, t-shirts and henleys. A few things of his own, obviously collected from the old house when someone had retrieved his books, but Deucalion hasn’t unpacked much of that.

He actively avoids looking at his reflection, but he knows he’s haggard. Threadbare, if not sartorially, then spiritually.

That doesn’t seem to matter. Stiles still looks at him with a certain captivation. Artless, undisguised affection, as though Deucalion hung the moon.

It’s almost more than he can weather; he can feel it rushing upon him like a strange, paradoxical tide. Chipping away at his edges, but building him up at the same time.

“It’s a promise,” Stiles says finally, with determination. He pulls his hand, and the ring he’s still holding, out of Deucalion’s grip. Immediately, before the loss of contact truly registers, there are long fingers tracing around Deucalion’s neck, slipping under the collar of his shirt.

He doesn’t rear back, or flinch. He doesn’t snarl at the unexpected touch; the instinct to protect his throat is conspicuously, stunningly absent.

Stiles hands curl, one thumb running feather-light over his adam’s apple, and Deucalion is immensely glad for his grip on the countertop. His legs tremble, and his chin tilts up without conscious thought, baring his jugular even more. The whine that ekes from him is soft, barely louder than the pounding of his own heart.

Stiles inhales sharply, but doesn’t retreat. His eyes are wide as saucers, and dark with wide-blown pupils. This close, Deucalion can see all the shades of copper, russet red, and flecks of old gold that layer into their rich brown colour. They remind Deucalion of deep woods. Of wet rocks and rich peat, and the hush that hangs heavily among ancient, vaulted copses of trees. The shadows that linger between thick, mossy trunks.

The eyes of a wild thing, not truly tame. A sense of kinship reaches deep into Deucalion’s soul, taking root.

He hears the wet click of Stiles swallowing, smells the musk of arousal weaving between them, but Deucalion doesn’t move a millimetre. He’s statue-still, barely trusting himself to blink.

It seems Stiles has no such compunctions. His hands rest there, clutching Deucalion’s neck reverently for an instant that feels like an age, but then they begin to travel. Clever fingers steal around, finding the clasp of the empty chain Deucalion still wears.

The ring slides back into place with a quiet _snick_ of sound, metal against metal, as it falls to rest on Deucalion’s chest. The weight of it, settling over his heart, makes him feel infinitely lighter.

“A promise,” Stiles says again, flattening his palm over the ring, and over the hammering of Deucalion’s pulse. “When a raven chooses a pack, it’s a promise to watch. To guard, and guide, and keep you safe. It’s what I’m gonna do. I promise.”

“Symbiosis.” It’s a struggle to find his voice, but Deucalion manages a rasp. “A partnership. We take care of each other, yes?”

“Yeah, that’s the deal.” In a sweep of dark lashes, Stiles looks down. Then, with another inhale, glances up to meet Deucalion’s gaze. “If you want. Okay?”

“Yes.” It’s the easiest question in the world to answer. The packbond vibrates between them, ringing bright and resonant, like struck crystal. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

“That was… somewhat disturbing.” Deucalion winces at the strident, offended squawk his bald comment earns. He probably could have phrased that more delicately. A dark, feathered head cocks sharply; even without the mobile features of his other form, Stiles somehow manages to affect a look that is unmistakably a pout.

“Forgive me.” He can’t quite shake the memory of Stiles’ bones realigning with wet crunches, feathers bursting from pale skin, and teeth fusing into the sleek curve of a beak. Deucalion has seen numerous transformations over his lifetime, but there was little elegance in the shift he just witnessed. It looked painful, nearly violent, though there isn’t a single whiff of sour pain on the air. Not a hint of blood.

He decides that he won’t ask Stiles if all ravens rend themselves so roughly from form to form. Not now, at any rate. Stiles’ father is human. It’s possible that makes a difference— perhaps having a human parent has an effect on Stiles’ transformations— or perhaps not. Deucalion doesn’t know enough about ravens to make anything approaching an educated guess, and after his initial blunder, he isn’t keen to open that can of worms.

Stiles’ talons click across the hardwood, before he hops up on the coffee table. Discarded clothes are crumpled in a heap on the living room floor. In preparation for this display of transformation, Stiles had stripped out of his shirt, but not his cargo shorts. The shorts, and the dark grey briefs underneath, fell away when the boy’s hips began to shrink, too narrow to hold up the waistband anymore.

The boy’s skin is bone-white beneath his clothes, even paler than his face and arms and dotted generously with moles, as Deucalion had suspected. Slim, coltish, but hinting at a sturdier frame as he grew into the breadth of his shoulders. Beautiful.

Stiles had asked him after they ate, simultaneously brash and bashful, if he wanted to see. Asked, with anxiety piquant around him, if Deucalion would watch the shift from boy to bird.

Such a private thing. Something that had marked Stiles as different from his peers. A vulnerability, and a secret kept his entire life. All that, and Stiles still asked if Deucalion was _curious_ , with a challenging jut of his chin and a hitch of nerves in his voice.

It would have been unforgivably rude to refuse such an offer.

It’s entirely natural, for creatures like them. Stiles, as Matthew, has certainly seen Deucalion shift often enough— stripped down to his hide in the forest, naked and unashamed. This isn’t any different.

Deucalion takes a breath, fingers curling against the sofa cushion under his arse. Perched on the coffee table, Stiles warbles roughly. The feathers around his throat are ruffled, his shoulders hunched, and the wedge of his tail is fanned out. When all those signs are taken together, Stiles’ agitation is crystal clear, and that simply won’t do.

“Forgive me,” Deucalion says again, softer this time, and sits forward. He knows that extending his hand might end with a sharp nip, but the risk of momentary pain is entirely worth it. Stiles is probably feeling somewhat insecure, understandably so, and Deucalion allowed his surprise to overwhelm his manners. “All I meant was, it’s quite a drastic change, from one form to the other. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. You’re remarkable, my dear. Utterly so.”

“Rrrrok.” It’s not a warning growl, but it’s not an entirely happy sound, either. Deucalion stretches farther, running his knuckles down the glossy feathers of Stiles’ chest, and doesn’t flinch when that wicked beak pecks him firmly on the wrist. It doesn’t break skin, but it does sting; the mild chastisement is immediately followed by a gentle nuzzle, and Deucalion knows he’s been forgiven.

“Kraa.” Stiles bobs in place for a moment, pressing into Deucalion’s touch. “ _Kraa_.”

“Yes, remarkable. And so benevolent, too.” Deucalion smiles as Stiles peers up at him. The boy’s eyes are a deeper brown in this form, but the weight of his attention feels just as keen. Just as clever; just as relentlessly curious.

“Kraa!” The insistent croak is the only warning Deucalion receives, before a flap of broad, black wings drops a familiar weight in his lap. Stiles’ slender feet grip at the thighs of his jeans, gaining purchase, and Deucalion slides farther back on the couch without a second thought, making more room.

Manoeuvring himself into a comfortable perch is an automatic reflex now. He doesn’t think twice about allowing Stiles to claim whatever space he wishes.

The knowledge that his dear raven, his Matthew, is also a teenage boy… Deucalion isn’t entirely certain what that means, with regards to his feelings. To his behaviour. What it means, and what it rightly _should_ mean, are not necessarily the same thing.

Deucalion reclines back, clearing a place for Stiles to nestle, and carefully combs his fingers through layers of feathers. Stiles’ plumage is silky soft, as usual, and the skin beneath is blood-warm. It feels delicate, vulnerable, and entirely unguarded. Welcoming. Matthew always purrs so sweetly under this sort of meticulous attention. Always melts under Deucalion’s hands, and gleams like polished onyx afterward, proud and sleek.

The wolf in Deucalion’s chest snarls when Stiles trills encouragingly— _mine, keep, **mine**_.

It’s a hungry, greedy thought. Unworthy of the man he ought to be, werewolf or not. He isn’t a ravening beast, even with madness hounding his heels and this yawning pit where his heart once beat.

Even so, he isn’t inclined to argue with the sentiment.

 

* * *

 

_Ding!_

The unexpected sound is muffled, but it’s enough to jerk Deucalion out of the impromptu doze he’d drifted into. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but apparently those good intentions had been overruled by his restless tossing and turning the night before, and the soothing vibrations of Stiles crooning against his chest.

Deucalion dreams of his own personal hell, every night. But, they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. A naked boy draped over him, pliant and snoring softly, might be a different sort of hell than the phantom lick of flames and a din of terrified screams.

_Ding!_

Another quiet chime rings out in the stillness of the living room. It’s coming from the direction of Stiles’ shorts, still in a wrinkled pile.

Deucalion takes note of the shadows and sunbeams, the angle of light streaming in the cottage windows; they haven’t been napping that long, but it must be early afternoon by now. Perhaps even a bit later. Stiles will need to leave soon— _far too soon_ — and Cora will be coming to collect him.

Perhaps that’s Cora now, making Stiles’ phone ping with a text message. Or one of Stiles’ parents, his mother, checking in on her son’s continued well-being in the wolf’s den.

It would be petty to ignore the message, and it could potentially sour the tentative compromise that had brought Stiles here today. As much as he’s loathe to break the peace settled around them, loathe to lose the warmth and weight of Stiles’ body lying against his chest, Deucalion can’t allow affectionate indulgence to overrule his good sense entirely.

He takes a deep breath. Brings Stiles’ scent into his lungs, until he feels full to brimming. It isn’t enough, not nearly, but he makes due. Dark, stubbled hair slides under his fingers; it’s a much different sensation than feathers, but still so incredibly soft.

Soft, as the cock nestled against his hip is decidedly _not_. Stiles’ scent is heady with the spice of arousal, blended with sleep, musk, and comfort. Deucalion takes another breath, savouring, before he speaks.

“Stiles.” He says it too quietly, the first time. It’s little wonder he gets no reaction. Deucalion runs his thumb around the shell of Stiles’ ear, slowly tracing the whorl. “Stiles. I hate to wake you, darling, but I’m afraid it’s time.”

Stiles grumbles, rubbing his brow against the hollow of Deucalion’s throat. His breath puffs, warm and slightly damp, and the loose grip he has on the cotton of Deucalion’s shirt tightens slightly.

It isn’t hard to tell when Stiles wakes— not when they’re pressed so close, at any rate. Not when Deucalion has his ears trained on the rhythm of the boy’s pulse. It isn’t the rapid hum of Matthew’s tiny heart, but the beats still come faster than those of a healthy, sleeping human.

The transition from sleep to consciousness might have been too subtle to notice, for someone else. The quickening of Stiles’ heart. The hitch in his breath, followed by a purposeful attempt to slow it again. Stiles is awake, Deucalion is sure, but feigning sleep.

“Mm.” It’s such a sweet sound. So soft and content. Warmth pools in the centre of Deucalion’s chest, deep behind his ribs, as Stiles sighs against his collarbone.

This sort of peace, this contentment, has been so far beyond his reach. He never thought he’d feel it again. No matter how unwise, no matter how selfish and foolish, Deucalion is loath to break this spell.

One long, coltish leg inches gradually upward, caging Deucalion beneath the naked expanse of Stiles’ thigh. It could be as innocent as mild restlessness. The boy could simply be getting comfortable.

Another small, breathy sigh, and the smallest roll Stiles’ hips. It would be easy enough not to notice. Easy enough to ignore.

Deucalion tips his head forward, pressing his nose against the crown of Stiles’ head, and the boy freezes. It’s the most telling sign of wakefulness thus far. The reaction that could spoil whatever this is.

All it will take is one word. Any of the words Deucalion might dare to speak.

He’s damned through his silence. Just as damned as he would be through acting upon the dark, greedy desires twisting in his gut.

Stiles’ hips roll again, gently. Seeking friction against Deucalion’s side. With the lack of censure, however, any lingering indecision is quickly overtaken by the sloppy desperation of a teenager.

The long, pale expanse of Stiles’ back ripples with short, rabbiting thrusts, and Deucalion is entranced by the elegant play of trim muscle under skin. By the dip of Stiles’ spine and the smooth slope of his arse. The boy carries potential for such grace, once the awkward growth of adolescence settles. Deucalion aches at the thought. What a beautiful creature his raven is; what a breathtaking creature he will become.

And the _noises_. The soft, helpless little whines eking from Stiles’ throat, and his wet, unsteady breaths. With every sweet sound, Deucalion feels more of his self-control crumbling away, like wet sand between his fingers.

This clumsy rutting should not be enough to make Deucalion’s blood heat. He’s fully dressed, with a teenager frotting against his side. He certainly should not feel the scrape of his teeth, sharpening in his hungry, watering mouth. He should not _crave_ so fiercely.

Stiles’ skin is velvety and smooth, damp with a sheen of sweat. It feels so supple beneath the drag of Deucalion’s palm, and yields under the clutch of his fingers. The boy is warm to the touch, warmer than a human, and heat pools in Deucalion’s belly. His cock— half-hard since he woke— stiffens against the unforgiving zip of his jeans. Stiles’ thigh presses down against the bulge, and a wave of pleasure has Deucalion aching.

There is no denying it now. No feigning sleep. No room left for playing ignorant or unaware.

Deucalion grips the boy’s bare hip, thumb dimpling the cheek of his arse, and Stiles’ back arches, pressing into the touch. His breathing hitches thickly, nearly a sob, and his own hands paw wildly, grasping at any part of Deucalion they can reach. The air around them is getting thicker by the moment, cloying, hotter than the August sun baking the earth outside. Almost briney, with the salt of sweat and a heady rush of hormones.

Deep, panting inhales paint the scent across Deucalion’s tongue, and his mouth grows even wetter. He growls, from the pit of his stomach, rumbling and rolling up his throat and through his lengthening teeth. He is nearly bursting at the seams, as the wolf leashed behind his ribs strains against the cage of his human body.

“Darling boy—” He doesn’t intend to speak. The words are jarring, startling loud, against the chorus of heavy breathing and pounding hearts. He didn’t intend any of this. “My darling, _mine_ —”

Stiles’ answering moan sounds as though it’s been punched out of him, and it rasps with echos of another body. Another form. His hips grind down, and he cries out, a rough shriek muffled against Deucalion’s neck. A sharp scent floods between them as Stiles shudders through orgasm, and the damp heat begins to bleed through Deucalion’s shirt.

It isn’t enough, but it’s far too much. Deucalion won’t ask for more than this moment. This closeness. Not now.

He breathes slowly, and gathers Stiles even closer, calling upon every ounce of gentleness left within him. The boy is so easy to manhandle, loose-limbed and faintly trembling, leaning into Deucalion’s hands with such perfect trust.

“Mm...” Stiles’ arm rises, then flops. He ignores Deucalion’s soothing murmurs in favour of finding a hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Mm.” He hums again, dragging their joined hands up to rest against his own chest. “My wolf.”

The boy sounds half asleep, but the words still pierce. Deucalion feels raw, split wide— joyous and terrified.

The pack bond between them sings with love, with family and belonging, and Deucalion blinks the wetness from his eyes before any tears can fall.

“Wondrous boy,” he whispers, as Stiles’ breathing slows again. “Such a marvel you are.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t discuss it.

Not in so many words, anyway. Stiles’ phone dings again after a few minutes of quiet. And this time, they can hardly afford another delay. Certainly not another distraction.

When shaken ever so slightly, Stiles wakes with a snort. He sits up, squinting bleary eyes, and glances down at his own naked, somewhat sticky torso.

“Huh,” he says. Deucalion’s attention is focused solely on his face, searching Stiles’ expression, and thus he catches the flicker of tongue swiping over that perfectly pink bottom lip. Then Stiles gestures at the minimal space between them. “You know, this wouldn’t be a laundry issue if you were naked too. And hey, I like this shirt— you look good in green.” There’s a pause, and with a flicker of dark lashes, Stiles meets his gaze steadily. “Just throwing this out there, ‘cause I really do like this shirt: I may know some tricks for getting jizz out of basically anything. I’ve been training for this, seriously.”

Well, if Deucalion had been harbouring any worries that the boy might be embarrassed, or worse, ashamed or frightened by what they’d gotten up to, there was clearly no need.

“I’ll be sure to remember that for next time,” Deucalion says dryly, before he can remember why even a vague mention of a possible _next time_  is a terrible idea.

The grin that blooms across Stiles’ face is luminous, and far too infectious. Deucalion’s wolfish urges have not been this calm, this _happy_ , in months.

“You should wash up, my dear.” The real world seems so far removed from this moment, but Deucalion knows it can hardly last. “And I ought to change, before your ride arrives.”

“Yeah.” Stiles stretches, then rolls to his feet. Naked and unashamed. _Gorgeous_. “If Cora thinks I’m pulling weeds and myself at the same time, she’ll be such a shit. And if she thinks something different, well...”

With a sniff, and a slight clearing of his throat, Stiles visibly shakes off that train of thought.

“My wolf,” he says again. Quick as a snake, he bends down, leaning in and planting a kiss against Deucalion’s cheek. It’s sweet, a bit playful, and Deucalion feels another pang in the centre of his chest.

Then, with just as little warning, Stiles is stepping away. “Okay, right. Pants. Let’s do this thing.”

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, Stiles leaves him with a cottage saturated in their combined scents, smelling more like a home than it’s ever done before, and with a request.

Deucalion wallows in the former as he roots through storage boxes, trying to stay focused on the present rather than the musty remnants of the past. He honours the latter when he finally finds his damn cell phone. Its battery is dead, obviously, but that’s simple enough to fix, once he finds the charging cord too.

He’s surprised the thing still has service, considering how long it’s been since he made a payment. When he checks, his account online shows his bills are up-to-date.

Talia again, most likely. Another thing she’s taken care of for him.

And he’s repaying her boundless friendship by stealing away such rare, magnificent creature.

Swallowing back a fresh wave of guilt, Deucalion is resigned to his fate: his greed for Stiles is too heady to be ignored, no matter what he owes Talia. No matter how many years of friendship stretch between them.

He moves to the end of the couch, close enough to the wall plug that he can use his mobile while it’s charging. The faintest smell of sex still lingers, conjuring up the memory of Stiles’ weight and the delicious little sounds he’d made, but with the windows wide open, it should fade quickly.

Deucalion has a scrap of paper in hand, with digits scrawled messily across it. When he enters the number into his contact list, his eyes skate across the names of the dead, and he knows immediately that he’ll never delete them. Even if seeing them all there feels like having his heart freshly carved out.

He sends a quick text, and gets a response from Stiles almost instantly.

They end up texting late into the night, conversation flowing easily, and Deucalion can’t bring himself to regret encouraging this. Not even after he falls asleep on the couch that smells of _them_ , and wakes in the morning with a dry mouth and crick in his neck.

If he dreams, he doesn’t remember it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this took way longer than expected. If you're also waiting on Glitter Glue, more of that is coming too. When? I'm not entirely sure, but it hasn't been abandoned. Cross my heart.
> 
> Real life has been super busy, but in very good ways. A new puppy and an incredibly sweet boyfriend have been terribly distracting. 
> 
> Although speaking of my incredibly sweet boyfriend, you can thank Mal for the addition of _tasteful humping_ to this chapter. It was coming eventually (ha!), but wasn't going to show up until later. I like this pacing much more than the original plan. 
> 
> Thanks, babe. ilu ❤  
> (go [read his stuff](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maledictum/pseuds/Maledictum), if you don't already. it's truly amazing writing)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Oh, This Ravenous Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146035) by [Algorithms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Algorithms/pseuds/Algorithms)




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